Imprisoned by Fear
by Igenlode Wordsmith
Summary: Christine and Raoul's escape plans succeed, but with Erik in pursuit they are still far from safe... Leroux-based AU, translated from the German original by EMK81
1. Imprisoned by Fear

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Imprisoned by Fear**

 _Summary: Christine and Raoul's escape plans succeed, but with Erik in pursuit they are still far from safe..._

* * *

She would sing for Erik one last time. One last time — and then vanish at once. That was what Christine had arranged with her fiancé, and that was how it would be.

She knew that Raoul was waiting for her at the stage door with several bodyguards — there would be no curtain call for her tonight; it was too risky. Nor would she return to her dressing room, or change out of her costume, or collect her personal belongings, for she knew that Erik was waiting for her behind the mirror.

Christine was weeping when she left the stage. She wept, for she knew all too well what she was doing to Erik and how much pain she was causing him. Raoul, however, ascribed her tears to fear. He took her gently in his arms and led her to a small side entrance where a coach with four horses awaited them.

On their way through the Opera she and Raoul had been escorted by seven armed men, and mounts for the latter stood ready behind the coach. Raoul meant to take no chances and had spared no cost. On the heavy vehicle there was a large trunk which held essential clothes for them both during their journey, and Raoul was carrying another case in which he had a pair of highly accurate pistols, in addition to a knife in his belt — although he doubted that Erik would engage him in a knife fight.

The driver was thoroughly briefed, and the coach sped off. Christine wept harder than ever.

"It will soon be over," Raoul said to comfort her, and took her into his embrace. "I'm here with you. It will be all right."

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for what I've done to him today," sobbed the young woman, who was still wearing the penitent's shift from Marguerite's prison scene.

The Vicomte sighed. It seemed odd to him that Christine was constantly expressing regret on Erik's behalf when the man was a common murderer and kidnapper. "It's not your fault," he soothed her, "this Erik has only himself to blame. If he had behaved towards you in a normal fashion then none of this would have been necessary."

"Oh, Raoul, you don't understand," Christine wept. "I owe Erik so much — he loves me, and I'm betraying him."

The young man decided it would be better to say nothing and hope that she would grow calmer of her own accord.

* * *

The escape was well planned-out. First they travelled along a route that had been drawn up so that they never spent more than one night anywhere, with the coach still guarded by seven armed men. In this manner they covered a zigzag course to the north-east so that they could then send the coach and its guard on further north by itself. If Erik were following them, then he would pursue the coach and thus lose their trail.

Then the young couple, dressed in simple working-class clothes, took the train back to Paris, where they were met by the Comte de Chagny and brought to his chateau south of the city. Christine was exhausted by the hardships of the journey and glad to be able to remain in the same place for a couple of days.

The Comte took Raoul into his study and demanded to know what these actions were supposed to mean. Raoul confessed to his brother that he and Christine were fleeing from the mysterious Erik, who wanted Christine for himself and now plotted revenge.

"Brother, the whole thing sounds to me very much like a bad novel," the Comte said irritably. "I understand that this escape plan of yours is helping you impress your opera-singer, but both of you are long past the age for such games. For God's sake, be reasonable! There is no-one following you. And what on earth is to be the outcome of it all?"

"I want to marry her — you know that. And I'm certain that we are being followed. This Erik is real: I've seen him myself. He will kill us if we give him the opportunity, that's why we've tried to decoy him to the north while in reality we're travelling back south. I don't intend to halt long anywhere. From now on Christine and I will be taking an unpredictable route without even knowing ourselves where we shall be and when. I've written the names of towns on a set of cards, and every time we'll draw a single card to determine where we go next. When we're there, we'll draw the next card. That way no-one can follow us: we won't even know ourselves where we shall be the next day."

The Comte let himself sink down into the chair behind his desk with a sigh.

"And how long are you going to keep this up?" he enquired. "You can't criss-cross Europe for the rest of your life. And how are you going to pay for it? While I'm obliged to make you a certain allowance, that's not an inexhaustible source of funds — and besides, how am I to send you the money when I don't know where you are?"

"I'll come back to Paris every so often and we'll do it like that," Raoul said, after considering. "I don't think Erik will reckon on our venturing back to Paris, so he won't look for us here."

"You can't simply set out to travel the world with an opera-singer — think of your reputation! Think of the reputation of our family!"

"I've thought of that as well. I'm going to marry her straight away tomorrow."

"And what if I refuse my consent?"

"You're not my legal guardian: you're my brother. I'm marrying her tomorrow."

The brothers stared at each other for a while in silence. Then the elder gave in. "Even if you're out of your mind, you're still my brother and I'll help. Marry her — travel the world — but don't come complaining to me afterwards if it doesn't make you happy."

* * *

The wedding was neither festive nor romantic. The bride and groom turned up in the little chapel wearing their travelling clothes, and only the priest and two witnesses — the Comte and his steward — were present. There was no music, no bells, no wedding-dress, not even a speech, and naturally no festivities. Any fuss was to be avoided for fear that Erik might get to know of it and turn the wedding into a bloodbath.

Immediately after the marriage ceremony the Vicomte and the newly-made Vicomtesse made their departure. This time they travelled to Calais, where they made enquiries about taking ship for England at almost every agency that booked passages. They went so far as to pay a young couple, both from a humble background on the docks, to set out for England on a journey booked under the name of "de Chagny". Thus, if Erik followed them, he would be sent off to England, whilst in reality they remained in France, this time taking the road southward.

Neither of them was able to appreciate the beauty of France that spring or summer. They changed coaches constantly, sometimes taking the train, sometimes the stagecoach, sometimes a hired vehicle and sometimes one of the de Chagny family coaches. Never more than a couple of days in any one place, they were constantly on their guard. On no account could they leave their room after darkness had fallen, whether they were passing the night in an inn, a high-class hotel or on one of the Comte de Chagny's estates.

During the day they felt relatively safe, since Christine knew that Erik had to conceal himself due to his disfigurement and thus could only travel under cover of dark. Erik was not in a position to take the train or the stage, but he might well be able to get hold of a horse.

So far as possible in the daytime they remained in places where there were lots of people, visiting fairs, church festivals and exhibitions. The more crowded the better, as Erik would never ever venture into a crowd of people.

But this constant state of flight was more of a strain than they had anticipated. Christine in particular suffered from it, and at the beginning of autumn matters became intolerable. She felt constantly ill, had to throw up several times a day, and became ever paler and weaker. Seriously worried for her, Raoul finally forced her to consult a doctor.

His concern was justified. The doctor congratulated them on the forthcoming happy event: Christine was expecting a child.

This presented them with a new problem. If they continued in their constant flight back and forth across France Christine would lose the baby. She could not cope with the hardships.

"We have no choice," Raoul decided. "We need help. My brother has always stood by us — I'm sure he won't leave us in the lurch now."

* * *

When he saw Raoul and his wife, the Comte de Chagny was appalled. In half a year they had both noticeably aged. Both looked at least ten years older.

Raoul had lost weight and there were grey hairs in his fair moustache. Christine was terribly pale and had deep lines around her eyes, and her lips had become very thin. Her formerly flowing fair hair was pinned up into a tight knot to conceal that it had grown thinner. Due to the constant fear and the stress of their ceaseless travels, it had become very lank and dull.

"My God, what has happened to you?" the Comte exclaimed.

"Nothing — we're fine," replied Raoul, with a smile that held no humour. "But I'm afraid we need to tax your readiness to help. This flight of ours needs to come to an end somewhere. We need a safe place to stay... we're expecting a child."

"And so your big brother is expected to come to the rescue again, I suppose?" snapped the Comte.

He pulled himself together and turned to Christine. "Forgive me. My heartiest congratulations: I'm very happy for you, truly. But, my dear — please don't misunderstand me — this really can't go on."

"On that we're all agreed," Christine told him. "I know we have no right to demand anything, but would you listen to a plea?"

The Comte answered with a smile: "No need for that. I've been waiting a long time for you to decide you've had enough of this crazy flight of yours. I really don't understand how you can be so paranoid."

He reached into the desk drawer and drew out a couple of newspapers, which he handed to his younger brother. "Your flight has been completely unnecessary for at least three months. The Phantom is back in the Opera and more active than ever. I don't believe he can be on your trail and in the Opera at one and the same time. If your mysterious pursuer is really the Phantom of the Opera, then he gave up the hunt back in June. The two of you are just seeing ghosts."

Raoul and Christine leafed through the papers, amazed. Christine noticed that some of the articles could refer to ordinary accidents which happened all the time, but some of the occurrences were so extraordinary that she was certain that Erik was behind them. Relieved, she breathed freely for the first time since they had fled the Phantom. She had been so sure that he was in pursuit — but if he had been in the Opera since June, then for some reason he must have changed his mind.

"I would never have thought that Erik would give up," she said with a sigh. "Maybe he is simply lulling us into thinking ourselves safe? We must get out of Paris at once!"

"I was expecting you would say that," answered the Comte. "Also I had really rather you indulged your eccentricities away from here. I have a chateau in the south which has extensive estates: I will gladly put the whole place at your disposal, lock, stock and barrel. If you want to make yourself useful in the role of steward there, Raoul, I should be very grateful."

"I have no idea how..." began Raoul doubtfully. Then his face cleared, and he went on: "But I can learn."

Christine stroked her stomach pensively. Since she had learnt that she was pregnant, she did this from time to time without being aware of it. "But what if he finds us?"

Again it was the Comte who supplied an idea. "I thought about that too. If it is as important to you as all that, I'll place a bodyguard at your disposal. He is an excellent man, a former soldier who knows how to make a position safe from attack. He is prepared to take you there and take responsibility for your safety."

He rang for a servant and told him to summon Pierre Bertrand. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and three huge shaggy dogs thrust their noses into the room.

Behind the dogs there stood a gaunt man with a bushy grey beard, a strongly marked hooked nose and an eyepatch over his right eye. When he took off his hat his bald head was visible, along with a terrible scar down the left-hand side of his scalp which had taken off half his left ear. He made an accomplished bow, but said nothing.

"This is Pierre Bertrand," the Comte said, presenting him. "Perhaps it would be best if you introduced yourself?"

"There's nothing to know about me," answered the man he had addressed. "My name's Pierre Bertrand, I used to be a soldier and I know how to fight — nothing more and nothing less."

"But this is no normal enemy you will have to deal with," Christine warned, "the man is a genius."

"Even a genius can't evade the noses of my dogs," replied Pierre, not without pride, and patted one of the dogs on the head, while another of them ran over to Christine and slobbered on her dress. Pierre hastily dragged it away from her by the collar, apologising that it was a young dog that didn't yet know how to behave; Christine liked dogs and didn't mind.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked Pierre, drawing out a cigarette case.

"Not at all — but not too near the Vicomtesse," cautioned Raoul. Pierre muttered something indistinguishable under his breath, went to the window, opened it, leaned casually against the window-seat and lit up his cigarette. The dogs lay down on the floor at his feet.

A strained pause followed, while Pierre blew clouds of smoke pointedly out of the window. Finally it was he who broke the silence.

"I need to know more about this enemy of yours."

"What do you want to know?" Raoul asked in return.

"Everything."

"Very well," began Christine. She sat down in an armchair. "His name is Erik — I don't know if that is his real name, but that's what he calls himself. He is tall, a little taller than you, and very thin, almost skeletal: his shoulders are much narrower than yours. But the most noticeable thing about him is that he has no nose and looks exactly like an Egyptian mummy that has come back to life."

Pierre's brows went up. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"It's not a joke," insisted Christine. "He really does look like that. And that's not all. To be honest, we... we're fleeing from the Phantom of the Opera."

Piere stared at her for a long moment. Then he broke into a roar of laughter. "That's a good one! That's really good!" he bellowed, still laughing. "I'm splitting my sides here — that's the most original leg-pull anyone's ever played on me!"

Then he saw that the other three were not laughing. He cleared his throat. "Not a joke? You — you really mean it? I didn't think... you were actually serious!"

"Unfortunately, yes," Philippe sighed. "It's not funny, alas."

"In that case I beg your pardon," Pierre said in embarrassment. "I was convinced you were having a joke at my expense, it sounds simply too unbelievable. Go on, please. I know next to nothing about the Phantom of the Opera."

Christine, who after all knew the most, continued with her description.

"The Phantom, or Erik, is a genius who can perform feats that no-one else can. He passes through walls and partitions, hears what goes on in the office when he is in the cellar, is everywhere at once and nothing can be kept hidden from him."

"And yet you've managed to run away from him," pointed out Pierre. "So he's no true ghost."

"No, no — he is a man," Christine hastened to assure him. "But he knows so much and is capable of so many things. I don't know how he does it, but he can make himself outright invisible in the dark and then he suddenly appears... He can climb up everywhere as if he could fly, he can... he can make people disappear... I'm so afraid!"

Pierre stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill outside, took out another, and immediately lit up. "He's a skilful murderer — is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Christine nodded, taking out a handkerchief and wiping her nose. Pierre continued, almost gently, "But he has a handicap: his appearance. He can't move about in public without being noticed."

"At night he can," pointed out Raoul.

"All right. And what would my role be?" asked Pierre.

"Exactly what you have described to me," Philippe replied. "You said you were a soldier in the Foreign Legion. You survived attacks and battles of all kinds, and you know how to avoid being killed by an enemy. I want you to make sure my brother and his wife reach the chateau in the south of France safely, and to turn the chateau into an unassailable fortress."

"I'm no specialist in fortification," grumbled Pierre. "But I'm an expert in running away. I'll tell you why I'm still alive: because I'm a coward ready to do anything necessary to survive. My role was always to keep watch on the base camp and cover the retreat."

"You're no coward," was Philippe's friendly retort.

"How do you know that?" demanded Raoul, not at all convinced that this outlandish soldier could protect Christine.

"Because he saved my life," replied Philippe simply. "I was on my way home, alone and on foot, and two men went for me with knives. Pierre overpowered them both and saved me. That was how we came to know each other."

"I'm out of work and have no-one and nothing apart from my dogs," Pierre growled. "Who is going to give work to an old soldier like me? If the good Comte de Chagny hadn't taken me on and paid me for doing nothing, I'd still be in the gutter. I'm in his debt and will take on even a Phantom if needs be. I don't think your Phantom is half so dangerous as you believe, and not so dangerous by a long shot as rebels to fight: but if you want me as your guard-dog, I'm at your service."


	2. The journey

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **The journey**

On Pierre's recommendation, Raoul and Christine used a commonplace, nondescript carriage. They had a single driver, no servants and only Pierre for escort, riding on a horse next to the coach.

Pierre had chosen the horse himself from the stables of the Comte de Chagny, against the express advice of the latter. It was a big grey stallion, generally regarded as so vicious and dangerous that it should really have been shot. But for whatever reason, Pierre considered that this unattractive, shaggy and aggressive beast would go very well with his three big shaggy hounds, which answered to the names of Scylla, Charybdis and Cerberus.

To the astonishment of everyone Pierre was able to calm the horse enough to saddle, bridle and ride it, although he had great difficulty at the start. The animal knew exactly how to get rid of a rider by bucking and bounding, and it was almost midday before it gave up its resistance to being ridden.

Raoul looked out of the window of the coach at Pierre. "Can you manage?" he asked in concern.

"Yes, yes — don't worry — I'll handle it," Pierre answered, just as one of the dogs ran too close to the stallion, which leapt sideways in alarm. Pierre kept his seat. "We'll be able to — Hey! Scylla, come here! Down, Charybdis! — get along together."

Raoul sat down again. "It looks as if this soldier of ours with a taste for the classics will manage somehow. I can only hope that we're not currently being followed; he's so taken up with the horse and the dogs that he wouldn't notice so much as a steam engine."

"Give him a chance," Christine said. "After all, it's not as if we have any alternative."

In the evening they put up at a small inn. The driver looked after the horses, save for Pierre's stallion, which he had to take care of himself since the driver refused so much as to go near the beast. Pierre was clearly aching all over from the arduous ride, but he took great pains not to let it be seen. Raoul was discussing with the landlord which rooms they could have when Pierre, who was visibly limping, came into the inn's parlour.

"And I tell you it's impossible to turn a whole floor over to you," insisted the landlord, "where are the other guests to sleep?"

"He'll be taking the top floor — all of it!" Pierre's voice brought to mind the low growl of a wolf. The old soldier stood there calmly and lit a cigarette, flanked by his three dogs. A brown bag hung over his right shoulder, on his left-hand side a pistol holster and a pistol were clearly visible, and prominently in view at his back was a gun with a sawn-off barrel. The largest of the dogs showed its teeth.

"See here, my good man," Pierre went on, "Cerberus here is a little nervous. We don't want him keeping your guests awake with barking, or — God forbid — biting someone, now do we?"

"Monsieur Bertrand, that is quite unnecessary!" snapped Raoul, with an edge in his voice that Christine had never heard from him before. "While you are in my service, there will be no threats made to anyone — is that clear?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte," Pierre answered, with a hint of a bow, and cast a glance at the landlord which made it plain that he was in no way prepared to comply with the order.

"Of course we'll pay," Raoul told the landlord. "Naturally I'll hire all the rooms on the top floor."

The landlord looked from Raoul to Pierre and back again, and finally decided to take the money. It seemed to him far safer than entering into an debate involving the dangerous dogs.

Raoul and Christine took their places in the dining room, and the driver disappeared with his supper and a mug of beer in the direction of their carriage, which was standing with the vehicles of the other guests, so that he could chat with his fellow-coachmen. Pierre obtained some bones and leftovers for his dogs from the kitchen, and decided to have his own meal together with them outside the door of the inn.

It was getting late when Raoul went to look for him.

"Monsieur Bertrand, my wife and I are going to turn in," Raoul said, and Pierre stood up, his dogs following suit without any need for a command.

"Then I'll have a look to see how you can spend the night in safety."

The soldier sought out the room at the end of the top-floor corridor for the Vicomte and Vicomtesse. "May I ask what the point of that is?" Christine enquired, curious.

"The higher up in the house, the harder it is to break in," explained Pierre, "and I'll be spending the night in the corridor outside your door with my dogs."

Raoul prepared the bedroom as he usually did, by setting a little lamp on the table and lighting it.

"What the devil's that for?" cried Pierre, who was watching through the open door.

"If we are surprised in the night, I'll be able to see the attacker," Raoul pointed out.

"Not like that! You're illuminating the bed — that way all it takes is a rifle on the roof of one of the neighbouring houses to pick you off. First of all, close the shutters: what can't be seen, can't be shot. After that — if you want to sleep with a light, get hold of a dark lantern that sends out a single beam, and direct it at the door. That way, any attacker will be standing in the light and you'll be in darkness behind."

Raoul and Christine looked at each other in consternation. All these months they had been running a risk without knowing it.

Pierre went down to get one of the coach-lamps, stood it on the little table and directed it at the door.

"That's better," he said, satisfied. "Now, please don't come out into the corridor during the night without calling out first. The dogs aren't used to you yet, and it could be awkward. Good night, Madame — Monsieur."

* * *

The night passed far from peacefully. Twice the snarling of the dogs jolted Christine and Raoul awake. In the morning Christine was up very early. "Can I come out?" she called through the closed door.

In answer came the sound of barking, a loud "Quiet!", and finally, much quieter, "Now you can." Christine stepped into the hallway and saw Pierre sitting with his back against the wall a few metres away. His three dogs lay on the floor next to him.

"Good morning," said Christine in a friendly tone.

Pierre stood up with an effort and stretched. He returned her greeting. "Good morning, Madame. There were a couple of drunks up here last night who had got the wrong floor, that was all. No problems."

At breakfast the landlady came to the Vicomte's table and enquired timidly whether he would be leaving at once. "Naturally, right after breakfast," responded the latter, and was astonished when her face brightened at this reply. "Why, is something wrong?"

The landlady explained that two other guests had complained about the dogs and one had actually been bitten, although he didn't want to lay a complaint with the police. He was afraid of the dogs and of Pierre.

While the driver was harnessing up the horses, the Vicomte had words with Pierre. "I can't have your dogs going round biting people — and you can't simply threaten them!"

"And how am I supposed to protect you, then?" retorted Pierre. "Perhaps I'm supposed to ask an attacker politely if he would be so good as to take himself off to the devil!"

He took a couple of deep breaths, felt in his breast pocket, and drew out his cigarette case and matches in order to light himself a cigarette. After his first pull he said, in a calmer and considerably more courteous voice, "Forgive me, sir, I spoke out of turn. I'll take more care in the future. I'm sorry, but I fell asleep last night, and when the two drunks entered the corridor my dogs cornered them immediately. One of them stood still and wasn't bitten, but the other trod on Scylla, who gave him a bite. If I had been awake it wouldn't have happened. It... it won't occur again."

"That's a fine fellow we've been landed with," Raoul said with a sigh, sitting down opposite Christine in the coach. "I just don't know what I'm to do with this man Bertrand."

* * *

That day's journey was very laborious. Christine was feeling sick and they frequently had to halt so that she could get some fresh air. On one of these occasions Raoul noticed Pierre looking back through a small pair of field-glasses. "Is everything all right?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh yes, I just wanted to check who is in that little open carriage behind us," Pierre assured him.

They made another halt. Christine was in the coach with the windows open and Raoul and the driver were standing next to it with the map, discussing where the next inn was in which they could spend the night, when one of the horses suddenly shied.

A jolt ran through the coach as both horses bolted. The driver was holding the reins, but was dragged along and had to let go to avoid being pulled under the wheels of the carriage. Raoul ran in pursuit, but on foot he had no chance of catching the bolting team.

Moments later Pierre went tearing after the coach on his stallion. Now it was clear why he had chosen this horse; it was considerably faster than the coach-horses and he swiftly caught up with the coach, which was swaying dangerously and threatening to overturn. Pierre brought his mount directly alongside the nearside horse and seized hold of the mane of the latter. How he managed to change horses in full gallop was more than Raoul could make out, but all at once Pierre was seated astride the other animal and grabbing for its reins with his left hand while his right hand seized the reins of the offside horse. The coach slowed at once and finally came to a standstill.

The nearside horse, still agitated, reared up. Pierre pulled it back down and both horses sidled and pranced, but without setting the vehicle back in motion.

Raoul reached the coach completely out of breath, flung the door open and found Christine lying senseless on the floor. He caught her in his arms and lifted her down in order to lay her on the grass at some distance from the carriage and the still unsettled horses. The driver also arrived and tried to get back onto his box, but at that moment for no apparent reason the horses bolted again and the coach dashed off.

Raoul paid no attention, for he was tending to Christine, who had reopened her eyes. "What happened?" she asked weakly.

"Are you all right?" asked the Vicomte anxiously.

Christine sat up cautiously and put a hand to her brow. "I think I must have hit my head," she murmured.

Then they looked around for the coach. It had turned round and Pierre was driving it at a slow pace back towards the Vicomte and his wife. Here he handed over the reins to the driver, before sitting down on the grass, breathing heavily. The dogs ran up to their master at once to greet him joyfully and get stroked.

"What happened?" Christine asked, worried.

"I think... insect.. flew into... ear of.. nearside horse," Pierre answered between gasps, before allowing himself to sink to the ground and lie there on his back until he could regain his breath. Meanwhile the driver had succeeded in quietening the horses and turning the coach to face the right way.

"Is it safe to get back into the coach?" Raoul asked, concerned. The driver gave it as his opinion that the horses had tired themselves out and that no further antics were likely.

Pierre looked around for his own mount and found the stallion grazing peacefully some distance away. When he approached the horse, it neatly evaded him. Raoul tried to help him catch the animal, but it escaped more adroitly than ever.

"This is getting us nowhere," snapped Pierre, and he went to the coach and took some oats from the driver's bag. He approached the stallion cautiously with the oats in his hand. The horse was clearly torn between greed and the wish to run away. When it finally accepted the oats, Pierre was able to catch hold of the reins and lead the horse back to the coach.

Raoul had in the meantime convinced himself that his wife would be able to continue their journey in the coach; there was really no other choice, since they could not spend the night by the side of the road.

"How is the Vicomtesse?" Pierre asked.

"Still alive," Christine answered on her own behalf, "but my head hurts terribly. What actually happened? I can't remember anything."

"How is the baby?" asked Raoul anxiously. Christine felt across her stomach and said that she felt no pains, but that to be on the safe side she would rather see a doctor.

"There's no doctor here and probably not in the next village either," pointed out the driver.

"We have no choice," Raoul decided. "We've got at least to make it to the next inn."

* * *

They reached a posting-house. This time there was no argument with the landlord, as there were very few guests staying and he was happy to be able to hire out an entire floor. Christine went to bed straight away in order to rest, and Raoul decided to check on Pierre. He found him in the stables, where he was brushing down the horses.

Raoul had barely entered the stable when the dogs blocked his way theateningly. "Down," commanded Pierre, and the dogs' attitude immediately changed. Now they snuffled around Raoul's legs with friendly wagging tails.

The Vicomte went cautiously to the box in which Pierre was working. "Things could have gone very badly today," he began. "I want to thank you for rescuing my wife."

Pierre shrugged this off. "I was just doing my duty," was his somewhat surly reply. He bent over to brush the horse's belly.

"All the same — thank you," persisted Raoul.

"In that case — you're welcome."

Both men said nothing for a while, Pierre occupied with the horse and Raoul watching him. Eventually Raoul broke a silence that he had begun to find awkward. "What you did — that was as good as a circus trick. And very brave."

Pierre straightened up, and looked at the Vicomte across the horse's back as he answered "It's easy to be brave when you have nothing to lose." Then he left the box, closing it carefully.

He took out his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his shirt and took a cigarette. Then he held the case out to the Vicomte: "Want one?"

Raoul accepted, even though he normally didn't smoke. "What do you mean by nothing to lose?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders and blew out a cloud of smoke. "What I said. I have no friends, no family: like my dogs I'm nothing more than a stray cur in the street. My life is in such ruins already that it's worth nothing to me any more."

Raoul felt a sudden pity for the man before him, but he did not know what he could say. So he confined himself to discussing with him how long they could stay at the inn without running any unnecessary risk. Christine would definitely need a few days to recover, but on the other hand they ought not to wait too long, or the danger of a pursuer tracking them down would become too great.

Suddenly Pierre asked: "Forgive the indiscreet question, but — is your wife expecting?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"The dogs: my dogs treat her far more gently than they ever did anyone else," said Pierre. "So for the rest of the journey, we'll have to take into account the need to take care of Madame. I'll do my best."

* * *

For Raoul and Christine, the onward journey passed agonisingly slowly. Every day's stage was planned so that the two of them could stay in an inn while Pierre rode ahead to prepare everything at the next inn, rode back again, and on the following day the coach made the same journey. Pierre covered every stretch of road three times over, but he rode alone and left his three dogs with Christine.

Raoul was not happy about this, since the three scruffy curs crowded round his wife, constantly wanting her to play with them or stroke them, while Christine, who loved animals, spoilt them. He had nothing against dogs, but a huge guard-dog was a guard-dog and not some little lapdog for pampering. On the other hand he welcomed the fact that the dogs were there. The three would defend Christine if anyone other than Pierre or Raoul tried to come near her, which meant that Raoul was not obliged to keep unbroken watch over her.

One evening, as Pierre was running the curry-comb over his horse, Christine came into the stable. The dogs followed her as if they were hers.

"Thank you for saving me," she began.

Pierre made her an elegant bow. "My pleasure, Madame."

Then he continued tending to his sweat-stained horse. Christine sat down on a hay-bale, and Cerberus laid his head in her lap. She fondled the dog's ears. "May I ask you something?"

"Yes?"

"Would you tell me something about yourself?"

Pierre straightened up with a sigh. "Madame, I wouldn't want to bore you."

"It wouldn't be boring to me," insisted Christine, who took a genuine interest in other people's lives.

"Madame, let's leave this alone. You are a Vicomtesse and I'm nothing but a cur in the gutter. You shouldn't be taking an interest in me."

Pierre's words struck Christine like a slap in the face. "Is that how you see me?" she asked, horrified. "I wasn't always a Vicomtesse; I was an opera-singer, and I too know what it means to be poor."

Pierre lit a cigarette and took a couple of deep pulls on it before he replied. "Very well, then. I was young once and stupid. Now I'm old and bitter. End of story."

"Do you really have nobody?"

Pierre put out his cigarette on the earthen floor of the stable, then pocketed the stub so that the horse would not eat it by mistake. Then he went around the far side of the horse and turned his back to Christine as he began to clean its hooves.

"Every soldier has a girl at some time, somewhere," he answered evasively.

"What happened?"

"She married someone else."

Christine felt something twist inside her as she looked at the old, embittered man, who so clearly still mourned for his lost love. If this old man was still in pain, how much must Erik be suffering, whom she had left less than a year ago? Tears came to her eyes, and she felt for her handkerchief to blow her nose.

"I beg your pardon, I shouldn't have been smoking in your presence," commented Pierre, not pausing in his work.

"It's not that," Christine reassured him. "It's just that... oh, it doesn't matter..."

"You want to know how long it takes to get over it, don't you?" Pierre guessed. "Of course you must want to know — that way you'll know how long it will be before your pursuer gives up. Well, Madame, this is the best I can explain: if I took my pistol and shot you in the leg so that it had to be amputated, for the first six months you would be in agony. After that it would get better, but the leg would never grow back. All you could do would be to learn to live with it."

Christine broke down in tears, not from fear of Erik but out of guilt towards him. She reproached herself bitterly for letting him suffer so much; she should never have done it.

At that moment Raoul came into the stable. "It's all arranged: the extra cushions for the coach... Oh Christine, what's wrong?"

His cheerful mood turned suddenly to concern as he saw his wife in tears. Pierre made a point of occupying himself ostentatiously with the horse's hoofs, and feigned deafness. The Vicomte took his wife and led her carefully away.

"What's the matter?" he asked in concern when they were in their room.

"Oh Raoul, I blame myself so much... What I did to Erik is unforgiveable..."

"What you did to Erik?" shouted Raoul. "What YOU did to HIM? It's what he did and wanted to do to you that is unforgiveable!"

He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to shout at you... my nerves are on edge, that's all. But truly, Christine, you must stop reproaching yourself; you've done nothing wrong. You're the victim here and Erik is to blame, and never let anyone tell you otherwise!"

Christine wiped away her tears and nodded bravely. "You're right. In my rational mind I know the same thing, but in my feelings it's different... I always have a guilty conscience when I think about Erik. And I feel guilty towards you too: you're so kind and so good to me and I'm such a bad wife..."

"Of course you're not a bad wife." Raoul took her in his arms and comforted her. "You're all I ever wanted, and I want you just as you are."


	3. The chateau

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **The chateau**

As the year wore on and the autumn started to become cold and rainy, their journey became more and more arduous. In addition, Pierre, who was the most exposed to the weather, acquired a nasty cough. One evening when he came back from his ride to the next inn, Raoul was waiting for him in the stables.

"It's all arranged," Pierre reported, then dismounted and promptly broke into a fit of coughing. The Vicomte caught hold of the reins, and between them they got the horse into his box. Now that he was constantly being ridden hard the stallion had become much quieter, and also consented from time to time to being ridden by the Vicomte, himself a good horseman.

When the horse was in his box, Raoul noticed that Pierre was shaking from head to foot and could barely keep hold of the saddle which he had taken off the horse's back. "My good man, you're ill," observed Raoul in concern.

"Only a cough," answered Pierre.

"That's not something to be taken lightly, man!" Raoul said warmly. "We'll put off tomorrow's stage by a day and see to it that you spend the day in bed and drink hot tea."

"You really want to run an unnecessary risk, just because I've got a bit of a cough?" Pierre was astonished.

"You're in my service: I owe you that much duty of care. You've got a fever, man! See to it that you get some hot soup in the common room at the inn, and then take a rest."

"But the night guard duty..."

"For now I'll do it myself — unless you think your dogs would attack me?"

Pierre said nothing, and was unusually quiet when he greeted his dogs.

* * *

After a day's rest he was clearly very much better, and they were able to set out again on their journey. Pierre was as taciturn as ever, but it was after a somewhat different fashion; he seemed less ill-tempered and embittered and more thoughtful. Perhaps the most noticeable outcome was that — probably on account of his cough — he was not smoking.

After these travails they were all the more relieved when they reached the chateau. The coachman knew the way, which was fortunate, as it was a rather secluded spot. There were a few little villages, then the seemingly endless lands belonging to the chateau, which specialised principally in wine-growing and horse-breeding. A few more little villages attached to the chateau housed farmers who had leased fields and grew there the food that supplied the workers, and also in part the inhabitants of the big house.

In principle the chateau could be self-sufficient, since there were also woodlands belonging to it, but this was not intended. Nor was it necessary. The wine production did very well and the exceptional quality of the wine made selling it a simple matter. The stud also had a good reputation, and its horses sold readily.

On their arrival Christine was astonished by the size of the grounds. The chateau was preceded by the little workers' village, which had a shop that sold practically everything, a tailor, a cobbler and a carpenter — also a very pretty Romanesque church. Then came a wall about three metres high made of rough stones, with a wrought-iron gate. Beyond the gate there began a gravel drive which ran through an attractively laid-out garden to the chateau proper, which seemed to have been conceived as a miniature castle.

Christine's eyes grew wider and wider as she realised how large the area within the walls was. "And these are only the gardens?" she said, marvelling. "It will be wonderful here in springtime — in the spring, when our baby has come!"

The staff at the chateau were standing ready to receive Raoul and his wife, and the steward in particular hastened to give a welcome to the Vicomte and Vicomtesse. The local priest was also present to pay his respects, along with every possible servant, foremen, local dignitaries and all those who considered themselves to be important persons. The Vicomte was friendly to them all, although he doubted if he would be able to remember all their names. The Vicomtesse was tired and quickly withdrew.

When the official part of the welcome was finally over, Raoul collapsed into an armchair in the library and dropped his head between his hands, exhausted. He heard Pierre's voice. "Excuse me..."

Raoul gave himself a shake and raised his head. "What is it now?"

"I've had a brief look over the chateau. Your brother really made a good choice here; a break-in would be difficult. I suggest that you give the order that at night all the windows must be shuttered and all the outside doors barred, and no-one is to hang around in the garden; it makes for an excellent barrier zone around the house, and I shall be on watch there with my dogs. I wouldn't want some member of the staff coming back from a tryst with a girl in one of the villages to get bitten by the dogs by mistake, so it's best to let them all know that it's not allowed. And if it's all right with you, I've noticed that the gatehouse is standing empty — I think that would make an excellent kennels for me and the dogs, if you would permit me to move in."

Raoul leant back in the chair and considered briefly. "All right. We need to discuss in any case the precise terms under which you are to work here. But I'm too tired at the moment to make any decision; we'll talk about it another time. Until then you can live in the gatehouse. If you need anything — firewood, blankets, sheets and so on — I'll give orders that you can get them from the chateau."

Pierre replied with a slight bow: "Thank you, Monsieur, and good night."

* * *

Over the next few weeks a certain routine became established. After Pierre's dogs had bitten a couple of the younger servants, word got about generally that it was better for anyone who failed to get back by curfew to stay out until the next morning. Christine settled down into rapid domestication and attempted to undertake the running of such a large household, though she would have been completely lost without the help of the plump and constantly cheerful cook. She had no idea of what she should do as lady of the house, or what orders to give. But the chateau had managed for decades without any members of the de Chagny family, under the rule of the steward and the cook, who oversaw the household, and there was not much for Christine to get wrong. She simply needed to learn, and positively blossomed in her new role. The tranquility and the fresh air were perceptibly doing her good.

Raoul had far more to struggle with. The steward was always pleasant to him, but it was clear that the man was not happy to have one of his noble employers moving into the chateau with the intention of taking affairs into his own hands. In consequence he did his best to keep the Vicomte out of the running of the estate as far as possible. To start off with this was entirely agreeable to Raoul, who knew nothing about wine-growing or horse-breeding, since it meant that he could concentrate on the things that really mattered: Christine's safety and well-being.

Pierre and his dogs were constantly everywhere, and Pierre developed a habit — extremely annoying to the staff — of sticking his nose into almost everything. The only one who stood up to him was the cook, who threatened briskly to hit him over the head with her frying-pan if she caught him or his hounds in her kitchen. All the others allowed themselves to be intimidated by the gun he openly carried and the huge dogs. In order to avoid bothering Raoul, Pierre simply took the question of the safety of the chateau into his own hands and took steps for the repair of the wall, the replacement of the window shutters and the fitting of new and better locks on almost all the doors.

Some days later, on a grey, rainy day in late autumn, one of the maidservants came rushing in a fluster to the music-room, where Christine and Raoul were sitting and reading the newspapers. "Come quickly, please, Monsieur! There's a quarrel between the soldier and the steward, one where only you can intervene!"

Raoul sighed, gave Christine a kiss and promised to be back soon. The maid led him towards the steward's office, and the raised voices of Pierre Bertrand and Maurice Dubois, the steward, were audible when they were still several corridors away.

"Change all the shutters and locks? Rebuild the fermentation cellar? Renew the stables and barns? Are you out of your mind?" shouted Maurice furiously.

Pierre's reply was somewhat quieter, but fury could be heard in his voice too. "The window shutters and locks have been useless for a long time — they might as well have a notice on them reading 'break in here please' — and the cellar doesn't have adequate ventilation. You know what a build-up of fermentation gas could mean..."

"In the last fifty years we've never had an accident with fermentation!"

"That doesn't mean it can't happen!"

Raoul quickened his step as he heard others interfering in the argument. Voices were audible:  
"The gas really is dangerous..."  
"We've always done it that way and nothing has ever gone wrong..."  
"What's the point of that all of a sudden?"  
"Why right now?"  
"Who does he think he is anyway?"  
"Well, I'm not going down there no more..."  
"It's dangerous for all of us..."  
and soon a number of men were shouting at each other in agitation.

Raoul turned into the corridor at the end of which the office lay. Through the open door he could see several men with their backs to the door blocking his view.

"Do you have any idea of the cost?" shouted Maurice. "This estate is just about in profit — but only just!"

"D—- your profit, we're talking about men's lives!" Pierre shouted back in outrage.

"I don't have to put up with that, Monsieur — not from you, some old man who comes from who knows where and ought to be thankful to have his feet under the table!"

"You swollen-headed stuffed shirt..." Pierre, who had started on a tirade of abuse, cut himself short, took a couple of deep breaths, and, mastering himself with difficulty, growled "I'm too old for this nonsense. I've been through it too often and I won't be a party to it again. Do yourself a favour; don't pick a quarrel with me."

"Is that a threat?" The steward's voice was derisive.

At that moment Raoul made it into the room and pushed through the bystanders, who were obviously foremen, secretaries and accountants. Now he could see that Maurice was sitting behind his desk with Pierre standing in front, leaning on the desktop with both hands while the two men glared into each other's eyes as if they wanted to shoot one another down with looks alone.

"No, Monsieur Dubois, that's not a threat," said Pierre, and his heavy breathing betrayed his fury. "It's a fact. Now do us both a favour and get out of my way — all I want is to do my job. But if you insist on thrusting a quarrel on me, then I won't be answerable for the consequences!"

"Messieurs, control yourselves — the pair of you!" The Vicomte had aimed for an air of authority, but at the moment he felt himself instead to be ridiculous.

All the same a sudden silence fell, and Pierre took a couple of steps back. "My apologies, Monsieur le Vicomte," he murmured, with a bow which left Raoul unsure whether it was meant as mockery or not.

"Now, what's wrong here? Monsieur Dubois — you first."

The steward reported in great detail how the accounts of the estate stood: how the vineyards were making a loss but the stud was doing better, such that the estate as a whole was in the black but there was no money for investment — and now this crazy old soldier turned up and wanted to give orders for completely unnecessary renovation work.

"Very well, that's your version. Monsieur Bertrand, what do you have to say on the matter?"

Pierre listed all the necessary improvements to the chateau and all its adjacent structures, in particular the farm buildings. Then he qualified this by saying that the shutters and locks on the chateau along with the ventilation of the cellar were the most important safety measures that could not wait.

"Safety measures?" snorted the steward. "Just who do you think you are?"

Raoul rounded on him. "It was MY order that he should attend to the matter of our safety here — are you questioning my decisions?"

Maurice paled and hastened to assure him that he would never venture to do any such thing.

"And you, Monsieur Bertrand?" Raoul began, planting himself in front of the man who was at least a head taller than himself. "You were to ask me before taking any action. You can offer me advice at any time, but I am the only one who makes the decisions here — is that clear?"

Pierre's eyes flashed as if he were on the point of breaking out in fury. Then he swallowed a couple of times, and finally answered through clenched teeth "Yes, Monsieur."

Raoul turned on his heel and strode off. He was himself not entirely sure what had just taken place: it reminded him a little of a fight for dominance between two dogs in a pack. Maurice and Pierre were both hot-heads who were clearly used to giving the orders, not following them.

Christine looked up from her paper in concern when her husband came into the room and collapsed onto the divan with a sigh. "What's the matter?"

Raoul shrugged it off. "Nothing that need worry you. A squabble between Bertrand and Dubois — I think I'm going to have a hard job to establish my authority here. How's the baby?"

Christine ran a hand over a stomach which had become increasingly round, and answered, with a laugh, "Kicking me harder every day."

At that moment there came a knock on the door. "Come in," called Christine automatically.

The door opened and Pierre came in alone, his steps lagging and shoulders slumped.

"I want to apologise, Monsieur," he began. "I... I misjudged you."

"How so?" asked Raoul, confused.

"I took you for a puffed-up fop, neither willing nor able to manage his own affairs. Today you taught me otherwise. I won't question your authority again."

Raoul didn't know whether or not he ought to be angry. Clearly Pierre had had no respect for him at all — which given the age difference between them was small wonder. It must have been hard for the old man to allow himself to be given orders by someone who could be his son. On the other hand the Vicomte had now won Pierre's respect, and somehow he had the feeling that it cost the man who stood before him a great effort to respect anyone else.

So he decided not to haul Pierre over the coals but answered quietly: "Apology accepted, Monsieur Bertrand. Now if there is nothing else to discuss, I wish you a good night."

Pierre bowed gracefully and left without another word.

Shortly afterwards, Christine and Raoul saw him and his dogs in the garden. It was dark, but Pierre's hurricane lamp could be made out clearly.


	4. The winter

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **The winter**

In the South winter was mild, thanks to the maritime climate, and almost without snow. A certain routine became established in the chateau; everyone had their appointed duties, while Pierre avoided most people, which was not difficult as he spent the day asleep in the gatehouse and kept watch at night. The sole point of contact between them was in the late afternoon.

Raoul took steps to make sure the chateau had a midwife and a doctor: he even fitted out a private medical practice for the doctor down in the basement and paid the full costs himself. It was a simple consideration — on the one hand he wanted a doctor in the house in case something should go wrong with Christine's confinement, and on the other he found Pierre's argument that he would want to have a doctor nearby if he were wounded in combat to be a very sensible one. If an emergency were in fact to arise and a man had to be sent on horseback to fetch the doctor from the village 10km away, it would be simply too long before help could arrive. A doctor in residence, however, could be there in a matter of minutes.

The doctor was an outstanding practitioner from Paris who moved in straight away with his family, for the simple reason that he had always dreamed of living in the south of France but, since he came from a poor background and had only just paid off the debts he had incurred while studying, couldn't afford it. Now, by a stroke of good fortune, without having private means at his disposal he had the chance to realise — after a fashion — his dream of a wine-growing estate in the South.

Dr Gaston Martin arrived with his wife and two daughters. Christine had had a charming apartment in the guest wing of the chateau prepared for them, and in no time at all had made friends with Madame Martin and the little girls. She thought it was wonderful that her child would grow up with playmates, and had quite some trouble to rein in the enthusiasm of her husband, who wanted to seek out a private tutor before the birth had even taken place.

* * *

One afternoon Raoul was practising in the rear part of the gardens with his pistol. He had hung up his target on the wall so that if he were to miss, the bullets would get stuck in the stonework.

Pierre stood next to him and watched for a while. His great dogs had retreated under the steps that led to the terrace, where it was dry. Pierre had constructed a pleasant lair for them there out of carpets that were not fit for use in the house.

"What's all this practice actually for?" Pierre asked after some time.

"If we're attacked, I want to be able to fight back," Raoul answered. Pierre watched with interest as he fired and reloaded the pistol.

"It doesn't make a lot of sense," Pierre pointed out, "to put the person who's supposed to be being protected in the front line."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, a pistol is for close combat and I'd prefer to see you stay in the chateau. You ought to be using a rifle and firing from a distance. May I?" Pierre swung his weapon off his shoulder, moved back from the target, took aim, let the rifle fall again and went back further.

Raoul followed him. "If you want to impress me with your shooting skills, go ahead," he offered cheerfully.

Indeed, Pierre selected a distance at which Raoul would no longer have been confident of hitting the inner ring of the target. Then he lay down flat on the ground, took aim with his left hand, and, growling "Naturally you'll need to do this in reverse — you've still got a good right eye", propped himself on his left elbow and fired.

Together they went to the target, and Raoul was astonished to see that Pierre had hit the mark.

Pierre reloaded his weapon and held it out to Raoul. "Your turn."

They went back to the spot from which Pierre had fired, and Raoul took aim. "Not like that," Pierre said.

"Why, what's wrong?"

"First of all, you're standing up. If you can hit something at this distance, so can the enemy. Lie down."

"Lie down? In this weather — in the mud?"

Pierre's face split into a broad grin as he retorted "When there are bullets flying about your ears, a bit of muck is the least of your worries. I once took cover in a dung heap and out of disgust my pursuer didn't search it — that sort of thing can literally save your life."

Raoul nodded and lay down, imitating Pierre's position of earlier on.

Pierre reached into his breast pocket and drew out his cigarettes. Raoul aimed."You'd find it easier if you breathed," observed Pierre.

"I am breathing."

"But not properly. If you're nervous for any reason, try to breathe steadily — that will calm you down. Try to stay calm and block out everything else. Imagine that you are a tiger lying in ambush and waiting for its prey. There is the prey: and now you get him."

Raoul tried to breathe steadily and to forget that he was lying in damp, muddy grass — which was far from easy. Then he fired.

When they went together to inspect the target, Pierre gave an approving nod. "Looks good for a first try. With enough practice, in a year or two you'd be able to shoot down any intruder from the roof of the chateau."

Raoul shivered, less from the cold than because the idea of having to kill a man horrified him. It didn't seem to have crossed Pierre's mind that shooting people might be a disturbing subject, for he went on to explain which hits would kill a man outright and which would leave him alive but put him out of action. Raoul fought back a sudden wave of nausea.

Noticing that the Vicomte had become very pale, Pierre decided to change the topic. "Might I ask a frank question, Monsieur?" he enquired cautiously, lighting his cigarette.

Raoul attempted to brush some of the mud off his clothes, and nodded.

"How far are you prepared to go? How far would you go to protect your family?"

Raoul was taken aback not a little by the question. "I'd give my life!" he answered passionately.

Pierre shook his head. "That's not enough. Dying is easy — anyone can do that. No, you need to be ready to give up all your own wishes and needs: to be ready to do things you abhor to the depths of your soul, and to be able to live with yourself after you have done them."

This reply caught Raoul by surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

"Are you ready to commit murder, if needs be? To lie, to betray, to steal — to do everything that's most repugnant to you?"

"If there is no other way... then yes. Listen, Monsieur Bertrand: I don't know why it's so necessary for you to know this, but I've already given up all my dreams so far as my own future is concerned — or do you imagine I enjoy playing at being the steward here? There's nothing here but a whole lot of countryside, and I'd pictured for myself a very different life. But I can't change things, and now I have to make the best of it. And if it comes to the point where I have to do something that goes against the grain to the deepest degree — then I'll do it. Are you satisfied?"

Pierre held out his cigarette-case in answer and offered him a cigarette. When Raoul took it, he told him: "Then I'll teach you how to fight."

* * *

The doctor calculated that the date of Christine's confinement would be the end of February or perhaps the beginning of March, to which Raoul responded with delight. "What difference does the date of the baby's birth make?" asked Christine in amazement, and Raoul admitted that he had been worried that the child was not his.

"Really — how dare you!" cried the young woman in outrage.

"It wasn't you I ever doubted," the Vicomte said defensively. "But you said that Erik had drugged you when he took you prisoner — you have no idea what he might have done to you. Anyway, it doesn't matter: if the baby is due in February, it happened in June — so it's absolutely certain that this is the child of both of us. Our baby! I'm looking forward to it so much."

Then it was Christmas. It was the custom for those servants who wanted to visit their families to be given the opportunity to do so, and for those who remained in the chateau to hold a Christmas celebration there. But now that two members of the de Chagny family were in residence, no-one was sure what to do about the situation. In the end Raoul decided that he would celebrate Christmas with Christine; however the staff would be able to use the great entrance hall as usual for their own festivities.

Raoul had chosen the room with the big fireplace for himself and Christine so that they could share supper together by candlelight. It was the first time in months that the two of them completely forgot about Erik and could concentrate entirely on each other. Christine had sent for a new device that could record music as a Christmas present for Raoul: a phonograph with some waltzes.

"We'll be able to record our baby's first word," she said, radiant, as Raoul stood rather hesitantly in front of the machine.

"Or you could sing an aria into it," suggested Raoul. "Then our great-grandchildren could hear your wonderful voice." Both laughed to think that one day they would sit by the fire as grandparents and tell stories to their grandchildren. Raoul had commissioned a necklace for Christine fit for a queen.

Down in the hall matters were far less romantic. Some of the household had become rather drunk, and things were getting loud. The Vicomte and Vicomtesse had prepared small presents for all those who were spending Christmas in the chateau, and distributed these before planning to go back upstairs. "Where is Pierre Bertrand?" asked Christine.

The cook answered: "Outside, with his dogs. He doesn't want to celebrate with us. He had something to eat and a glass of punch just now, but he wouldn't stay."

So Raoul went outdoors. Christine wanted to come with him, but Raoul felt that it was too dangerous for her to go out after dark. He had barely opened the door of the chateau when one of the dogs stood in front of him, barking.

"Down, boy — it's only me," said Raoul, since he knew that the dogs were familiar with him. All the same, the hound planted itself straight in front of him and would not let him out of the house.

"Charybdis! Sit!" cried Pierre, and hastened to join Raoul. "I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't know you would want to go out at this hour."

"I only wanted to see you, as you're not at the party," Raoul said in a friendly tone. "Won't you come in?"

Pierre cast a glance over his dogs, then said with a shrug: "If you wish."

The Vicomte brought Pierre up to the room where the Vicomtesse sat by the fireplace, waiting. "Monsieur Bertrand, we'd like to wish you a happy Christmas!" she said merrily, and thrust a small parcel into the astonished man's hand.

Pierre stared at the parcel as if he didn't know what to do with it. "Thank you," he said, bewildered. "I'm very grateful, but... I don't understand..."

Christine laughed. "It's Christmas and we're giving you a Christmas present — what is there not to understand about that?"

Pierre smiled, expressed his thanks once again and asked in some embarrassment whether he could open it.

"Of course!" Christine told him. She found Pierre's total clumsiness in the face of his employers' friendship and generosity to be touching.

Pierre dexterously opened the parcel, and drew out a silver cigarette case engraved with a coach and pair. He stood there as if turned to stone with the cigarette case in his hand. "Thanks, but... I can't take it," he stammered.

"But why not?" asked Christine. "Don't you like it?"

"Yes, yes I do — I love it. It's just... it's much too valuable," Pierre said hastily. "I don't think I ought to take it."

"But we're giving it to you," Raoul said warmly.

Pierre turned the cigarette case over and over in his hands, then pocketed it and thanked them again. "I have nothing at all for you..." he stammered, embarrassed. Then as if by accident he shook his sleeve and a tiny derringer fell into his hand.

"Allow me to give you this," he said, holding the pistol out to Raoul. "It's not worth much, but it has a certain value to me. I've carried it on me for decades; I got it so that I could shoot myself rather than being taken alive. The bullet was only ever meant for me."

The Vicomte felt a lump in his throat. "And you really want to give it away?"

Pierre nodded vigorously. "Yes, the two of you should have it now — as a lucky talisman."

* * *

Until the end of January things were surprisingly peaceful. Then a courier brought a letter from the Comte de Chagny that read as follows:

"My dear brother,

"I am beginning to doubt whether my assumption that you and your wife were seeing things was not at fault. Since about two weeks prior to your departure from Paris nothing has happened at the Opera that would indicate the presence of the Phantom. Box 5 has been let out, there are no threats against the directors, there have been no particularly abnormal accidents or anything of the sort. I have been told by La Sorelli that it is not unusual for nothing to be heard of the Phantom for a few weeks, but peace has reigned since September.

"Take care, for I am beginning to be concerned for your safety. Send the bearer back with an answer to let me know that all is well with you.

"Your brother, Philippe."

Raoul grew pale as he read the letter.

"Oh my God, Erik was following us all along!" He tugged on the bell to ring for a servant. "Call Pierre Bertrand at once!"

Pierre Bertrand appeared a few minutes later, bleary-eyed with crumpled clothes. The three big dogs were by his side. "Morning." He yawned. "What's happened?"

"Read this — and you tell me!"

Pierre took the letter, read it and gave it back to the Vicomte. "Sounds as if we must be on our guard," he observed.

"What are we to do? We've got to find something! My wife is having a baby in a month's time — we can't leave here now!" cried Raoul on the verge of panic.

"No rash knee-jerk reactions: say nothing of this to your wife, please, if you don't want to upset her unnecessarily," Pierre said calmly. "How does the Phantom usually proceed? If he hunts like the tiger, then he stalks his prey and strikes lightning-fast; if he hunts like the wolf then he hounds his prey until it breaks down exhausted; if he hunts like the spider, then he builds a trap somewhere or other."

Raoul tried to still his trembling hands, but could not quite manage it. "How should I know?" he groaned.

Pierre remained calm. "Very well. In two out of the three possibilities it would be a bad idea to begin a journey now, since you would either be hounded down or fall into the trap. And in the third case an attacker would still first have to get past me and my dogs — I may not be invincible, but the noise would wake the whole chateau and be heard perhaps as far as the village. If we stay here, the opportunity to choose the battlefield and prepare accordingly belongs to us, not to someone coming from outside. I believe you're safest here."

Raoul got up and went to the sideboard to pour himself some cognac. Pierre laid a hand on his arm. "Don't do that."

"Don't you touch me!" cried Raoul, in whom agitation had become rage.

Pierre neither backed off nor let go of Raoul. "Don't do it. If you drink cognac every time you get nervous, then soon you'll be drinking every day. I've nothing against relaxing and enjoying a good glass of wine, but right now you need to keep a clear head."

Raoul tore himself loose and gave Pierre a forceful shove that made him take a step back. "And what about your confounded cigarettes?"

Pierre laughed. "Touché! But at least they fuddle the mind less. Want one?"

He held out the silver cigarette case. Shortly afterwards, both of them were sitting and smoking in the room that Raoul had adopted as his study. The dogs lay on the carpet and dozed.

"But what are we actually to do?" asked the Vicomte, once he calmed down.

"The same as we've done up to now — make the chateau safe. Since we're on the subject... locks can be forced open, bolts can't, or only with difficulty. Bolts on the inner side of all the outside doors, the basement windows must have new bars, and the shutters on the ground-floor windows and the first two storeys must also be capable of being bolted from the inside."

"That goes without saying. See to it."

* * *

It was not long before Christine noticed that Raoul was much more tense than usual.

"It's just on account of the birth... I'm so afraid that something will happen to you and the child," Raoul told her, and his wife kissed him gently.

"I'm not the first woman to have a baby, you know. Everything will be all right; I can feel it."


	5. Marie Claire Louise

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Marie Claire Louise**

It was a sunny day at the start of March, and Christine was sitting on the terrace enjoying the first warm sunshine of the year when she suddenly cried out. In an instant Raoul was at her side. "What is it?"

"It's started," Christine whispered between set teeth.

Raoul knew that he must do something, but at that moment he had simply no idea what. It was as if his wits had suddenly vanished, leaving only an appalling panic. All that occurred to him was to call loudly for help; Christine laughed. "That was only the first pain, and it's over."

The parlour-maids, the cook, and various male servants came running immediately. "Call the midwife and the doctor and take my wife to her room!" commanded Raoul in a trembling voice, and the servants hastened to carry out his orders. Raoul paced around anxiously, not knowing what to do.

"Darling, you're making me nervous," said Christine, who, supported by two of the parlour-maids, was entirely capable of making her own way to her room.

"Are you all right? Are you in pain? How is the baby? Does it hurt terribly? What's happening now?" asked Raoul.

At that point the midwife appeared, and the doctor together with his wife, who could assist him in case of need. Christine lay down on the bed.

"We must get you into a nightgown, Madame," said the midwife, and she and the parlour-maids helped Christine to change while the doctor waited discreetly outside the door. He was wondering whether it was not rather the father-to-be whom he should be treating; at any rate the young mother currently appeared to be in the pink of health while the father looked as if he would pass out at any moment.

"There's nothing to worry about: normally the labour pains are several hours apart at the beginning, then intervals will become shorter and shorter until the birth really gets under way," he reassured Raoul, who was fidgeting around nervously. "So there's still a long time to go."

At that moment Christine cried out again, and Raoul slid to the ground. The doctor rolled his eyes: yet another father who couldn't handle childbirth, despite not even being in the same room but only outside the door. Unless the midwife called on him for help the doctor would not so much as enter the room, and if the birth took place without complications he would be entirely superflous. However, he was ready to intervene if anything were to go wrong.

Just then Pierre entered the passage. He looked from the unconscious Vicomte to the doctor. "Get the father out of my hair before he does himself an injury!" commanded Dr Martin, and Pierre took hold of the Vicomte and carried him to his study, where he laid him on the sofa. Sure enough, Raoul came to his senses.

"Where am I and how is Christine?"

Pierre, who himself seemed tense, shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? The doctor told me to remove you before you hurt yourself."

Raoul jumped to his feet and ran back to Christine's bedroom, closely followed by Pierre. "How is she? What's the matter? Is she in pain? How is the baby?" Raoul cried, completely out of breath.

"Ah, the second stage of labour has just started — it'll be another couple of hours," explained the doctor, who was sitting on a chair leafing through a book. His black bag was standing on the floor next to him.

"Hours? Oh God..." Raoul would have been on the verge of collapsing again if Pierre had not caught hold of him from behind and held on.

"Come on, we'll get some fresh air," suggested Pierre, and Raoul allowed himself to be led away.

In the garden Raoul sat down on the grass to avoid falling over. One of Pierre's dogs ran up to him and sat down beside him, and Raoul put an arm round the animal. He needed something to hang onto — even if it was only a dog.

Just then they heard a cry from Christine. "Don't pass out!" warned Pierre, who had himself gone very pale.

Raoul shook his head and held more tightly onto the hound. "And kindly don't throttle my Charybdis," Pierre growled, and sat down next to Raoul.

"How is she?" Raoul begged. "What's going on? Is there anything I can do?"

"Excuse me a moment..." Pierre said, and disappeared.

After what felt like an eternity he returned and reported: "The midwife has given out 'no men allowed on this floor' as the watchword and the cook is sitting on the stairs armed with a frying-pan. She said the Vicomtesse had given her explicit instructions to crack the skull of any man she could get hold of."

"And what took you so long?" Raoul enquired anxiously.

Pierre gave a sigh and admitted with embarrassment that he hadn't felt any too good himself.

"You... felt ill?" Raoul was taken aback; then he had to laugh. "You, an old campaigner with nerves of steel, afraid of no-one and nothing — you felt ill because MY wife was having a baby?"

Pierre permitted himself an awkward grin. "I just can't bear it for a woman to be in pain."

* * *

The next few hours were atrocious, for Christine at least, for all that it was an amazingly easy and rapid birth. But then came the moment when the midwife showed her child to her for the first time.

"Congratulations, you have a healthy girl," the woman said, beaming. Christine took the tiny creature, which seemed to her to be the most beautiful baby in the whole world, in her arms and at a stroke all the suffering of the previous hours flew out of her mind.

"Please call my husband," she said.

Raoul came in trembling, with grass and mud on his trousers. "Are you all right?" he asked, in a voice that sounded more like a six-year-old than a grown man.

"Look — our daughter," said Christine, and showed him the baby.

"Oh, my God!" It was all Raoul could manage. He wept with joy when he learnt that it was a completely healthy little girl. "I'm so happy!"

The days that followed plunged the young parents into a whirl of alternating emotions. On the one hand they were delighted about the baby, who was to carry the names Marie Claire Louise. On the other they were highly offended when people commiserated with the Vicomte for having only got a daughter. They couldn't stand all this stupid business about how awful it was that she was only a girl: Raoul told everybody, whether they wanted to hear it or not, how incredibly pleased he was to have a healthy daughter and how in any case a daughter was what he had wanted. The more he heard how unfortunate he was to have a girl, the more he was insistent that he wanted more girls and what a wonderful thing daughters were.

Three days after the birth, the Vicomte and Vicomtesse called Pierre into the salon.

"May I present Marie Claire Louise de Chagny," Christine said, beaming. Pierre approached cautiously to take a glance at the baby, who looked at him with wide blue eyes.

"My heartiest congratulations," he said, and Christine noticed that his voice sounded clearer and less gruff than usual.

"We have something to ask of you," began Raoul, and Pierre paid attention. "We'd like you to be Marie's godfather."

Pierre's reaction made both Raoul and Christine laugh. At first he stood there as if he had been struck in the face, then he opened his mouth, couldn't get out a word, shut it again and tried once more, but without success. Finally he sat down in an armchair without being asked and stared at them both as if they had just dropped out of the sky in front of him. This lasted for a while, and then he burst out: "Why me?"

"If you hadn't saved my life, then Marie would never have been born. In the coach — don't you remember?" said Christine, and held out Marie for Pierre to take her in his arms.

Pierre made no move to touch the baby, but stared at Marie as if afraid of her. Then suddenly his expression softened and grew more gentle, and tears came into his eyes as he cautiously reached out a hand to touch Marie's tiny little hand with one finger. "She is so very beautiful," he whispered.

Marie gripped his finger and held onto it tightly. Pierre trembled so much that if he had not already been sitting down he would have fallen over. "And... you really want ME of all people to be her godfather?" he asked in disbelief.

Christine and Raoul both nodded. Pierre drew his hand back and shook his head. "I... I can't do it... I mean... surely you don't want..."

"Of course we do," Christine insisted. "Why, we just said so."

"No, you don't!" The violence of Pierre's reply made Christine flinch back in shock. He shook his head again, saying sadly, "You know absolutely nothing about me... I'm nothing more than a gutter cur, wholly unpredictable. If you don't watch out, I'll go for the throat of my master. I'm the sort of mongrel dog who steals the roast, piddles on the legs of important guests, and messes on the carpet... believe me, you certainly don't want it to be me!"

He added quietly: "Although I wish..."

"Then say yes," Christine pressed him.

Pierre sighed. "If you're asking me again, then I have no more strength to refuse. Marie... little Marie... oh, God... how could I..."

Raoul took Christine to one side to ask her again if she was certain Pierre was the right godfather for Marie, when Pierre himself believed that he was unsuitable. Christine looked down at Marie in her arms. "Let Marie decide. If she starts to cry when I put her into his arms, that means no; if she doesn't cry, that means yes."

She went up to Pierre with determination and thrust Marie into his clasp, and Pierre sat there, scarcely daring to move for fear of dropping this tiny creature. Marie yawned and went to sleep. "That would be a yes, then," Raoul judged.

Pierre smiled as he answered: "In that case — it would be an honour. Hallo, little Marie, I'm your godfather, I'm supposed to protect you and so I shall. I swear to you that I'll do everything I can."

* * *

A few days before the christening, Pierre approached the Vicomte and begged him to think again and choose another godfather.

"Why?" asked the Vicomte. Pierre made a helpless gesture with his hands and brought out nothing but an incomprehensible stammer. "I don't understand..."

"I... I'm not fit to be a godfather," said Pierre in the depths of despair. "I'm not at all a good man."

"But why?" Raoul pressed him for details. "Tell me why exactly."

"I've... I've spilt far too much blood..."

Raoul was unperturbed. "You were a soldier, Monsieur Bertrand, and as a soldier have surely done terrible things, but I've always taken that into account. Or did you think I was so naive as to suppose that one could be a soldier without killing and injuring people?"

Pierre rubbed his temples as if his head ached, and sighed. "I give up... I still think that I'm by far the worst choice you could have found, but if you wish it then I'll take on this task. But don't tell me later on that I didn't warn you."

Now Raoul did find himself somewhat perturbed. Why did Pierre resist so much? It must be a dark secret that weighed so heavily on a man that he was not prepared to become a godfather even when he would clearly love to do it."Monsieur Bertrand — if you are not in a position to undertake the duties of a godfather, then say so!"

His words acted upon Pierre like the crack of a whip on a circus horse. "No, no, that's not it at all. If I become Marie's godfather, then I swear by all that I hold holy that I shall do everything within my power to protect her from any harm. I'll do everything, absolutely everything. But... please don't misunderstand me... I simply don't believe that I'm worthy of that honour."

Raoul laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "In that case you have the opportunity from now on to prove yourself worthy."

He felt a jolt run through the gaunt man as if the other had taken an irrevocable decision. Pierre looked him straight in the eyes. "You can count on me."


	6. Spring and summer

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Spring and summer**

A few days after Marie's christening, the servant who took the post daily down to the little postal station in the village reported that the village was in a flurry of excitement because the organ in the church had played during the night. Yet it had not been either the parish priest or the organist or the choirmaster in the church, for all three swore up hill and down dale that they had been at home that night.

Raoul felt panic rise, and he was only glad that he was alone in his study and that his wife was not there. He felt suddenly cold and sick; sweat broke out on him and his legs trembled so much that he had to remain in his seat.

"Is everything all right, Monsieur?" enquired the servant, alarmed.

"No! Nothing is all right!" cried Raoul, his voice cracking. "Call Bertrand and Dubois at once!"

Both of them arrived immediately. Pierre looked grim.

"Erik is here," said Raoul tonelessly. Pierre stood there with his hands balled up into fists and stared down at the floor. By now Maurice knew that the Vicomte and Vicomtesse were trying to escape an 'Erik', and he too was able to realise just what this implied.

"And? What do we do now?" demanded Raoul.

Pierre sighed. "It was the church organ... so he was in the church. But he didn't come near the chateau: I was on watch, as always. He must be somewhere. We can drive him off if we arrange a shooting-party."

"We can't hunt a man!" Raoul protested.

"That's not what I mean. There are woods around the chateau; presumably he is in there. He'd be too conspicuous in the village or at the stud-farm. If we stage a hunt, an entirely normal shoot, we'll force him to leave again."

Dubois, on the other hand, suggested that they should inform the police that there was a wanted murderer in the vicinity.

"We'll do both," Raoul decided. "The more eyes there are on the look-out, the better for us."

The police did in fact dutifully search all through the villages — houses, barns and stables, and also the cellars and all the buildings on the estate — and found... nothing. Erik had vanished off the face of the earth.

The hunt took place without participation from its host, Raoul having excused himself officially on the grounds that he had injured a leg while out riding. He was represented by Pierre. The guests were, in the main, the owners of the surrounding estates, landed aristocracy who were delighted to comply with an invitation from the Vicomte de Chagny.

As a hunt it wasn't particularly successful — only a handful of game was shot — but that was in any case irrelevant. The actual purpose was that Erik should be driven out of the woods. No-one had seriously expected that they would catch Erik, but Raoul wanted to send him a clear message: **We know you're there. We're ready for you. If war is what you want, then you can have it.**

Wherever Erik might have been concealing himself, after the police search and the shoot through the woods there could be no other possibility than that he had abandoned the area — in particular given that the shooting-party had ended with a grand entertainment at the chateau. Great celebrations, lots of people (since all those invited to the hunt had brought their own huntsmen and their favourite servants with them), all of them armed; any attempt at an attack would have been pure suicide. No-one could have penetrated far enough to reach the Vicomte and Vicomtesse, who stayed at the back of the hall.

Over the following weeks Raoul and Christine did not dare venture outside the chateau, despite the glorious spring weather. They never set foot on the balcony or terrace, and nor was the nursemaid on any account allowed to take Marie outside, or to leave the big perambulator near a window even once. Raoul carried a gun with him constantly. At night he took the precaution of directing the beam from one dark-lantern towards the window and another at the door, while the great bed in which he and Christine slept was fitted with lightweight curtains: if they were in danger, he would be able to shoot any intruder from where he lay.

Marie and the nursemaid slept in the neighbouring room. Between the two rooms there was a connecting door, and the door which led from the other room to the corridor was nailed up so that the nursery could only be accessed through the Vicomte's bedroom. In this way Marie would be as safe as possible.

A strange sort of routine established itself. The windows must always be covered or kept shut so that no-one could see in from outside. The shutters were opened only enough to form loopholes through which one could fire, so that despite the spring a gloomy, depressing air began to spread. Neither Raoul nor Christine nor Marie left the interior of the chateau; Raoul at least looked outside now and again when he did his shooting practice with Pierre.

Pierre had constructed straw dummies, which he set up on broomsticks around the garden so that Raoul could shoot at them — when no-one was in the garden, naturally. They even attempted this exercise at night, until Pierre put an end to it on discovering that Raoul couldn't see well enough in the dark.

While Raoul and Christine grew ever more pale and silent, Pierre too was changed. Now that he only rarely smoked, his voice had lost its hoarseness and become lighter and clearer; in fact it was very gentle and pleasant. Furthermore he altered his night-time habits. By night he would take the grey horse from the stable behind the chateau and ride around the gardens in the dark. He no longer made use of a lantern, and practised together with the horse and the dogs until their five shapes moved through the grounds like ghosts, soundless and almost invisible. Only now and again when the moonlight fell upon them could they be seen.

Every evening at a quarter to six Pierre visited his god-daughter, sat for fifteen minutes by her cradle and played with her. He had his own special way of playing with the baby: first he would lean over the cradle and then wait until Marie turned her great blue eyes onto him. Then he would carefully move his hand directly above her and she would make a grab for it. As soon as she managed to catch hold of his finger she would gurgle with satisfaction and Pierre would laugh. This went on for a quarter of an hour, then he said good-bye and left.

Raoul and Christine were amazed at this strong affection suddenly shown by Pierre. It was as if the old man were completely transformed when he was near Marie — as if Marie were a little sun with the power to melt the winter's snow.

* * *

It was May when Pierre sought a talk with them.

"This can't go on," he began. "A child needs fresh air and sunshine. And just take a look at yourselves — somehow you must try to live a normal life. You can't spend the rest of your lives shut up in a darkened house.

"Listen to me: this chateau is like the Bastille and you are the prisoners, can't you see that? Nothing has been heard of Erik for months. He hasn't attacked. Nothing has been seen of him — nothing. He's probably long gone. You are his prisoners without his even lifting a finger. He's got you so cowed that you've locked yourselves in jail."

"We can't take any risks!" insisted Raoul. Pierre sighed.

"Then at least go out into the garden with Marie some sunny morning. My dogs and I will be there to guard you. Nothing will happen, I'm sure of that."

"And if it does?" Christine objected. "I'm not running the risk!"

"Nothing will happen, I promise you," insisted Pierre.

From then on they began cautiously to venture at least for short periods outside the chateau and to open the windows again. Christine was astonished at the beauty of the vast gardens: with all the flowers and blossoming bushes and the fresh greenery it was wonderful.

After they had survived several weeks and nothing at all had happened they became a little braver. Raoul ventured — under Pierre's escort — to ride over the estates in order to inspect the vineyards, as well as the stud farm together with its paddocks, indoor riding-school and the attached training grounds.

Slowly, very slowly, they began to lay aside the strain. They attempted to live as normal, and nothing happened. Wherever Erik was, whatever he was planning, he made no move at all; finally it was Christine who said "To perish with fear is also a form of death — and I refuse to let Erik win. I won't let him destroy our happiness. From now on we shall live as ordinary a life as possible."

~o~

In early summer Pierre came suddenly into Raoul's study just as the latter was writing a letter to his brother.

"May I speak to you, sir?" he asked, almost sheepishly.

"Of course — what is it?"

Pierre shifted from one foot to the other in embarrassment and stared at the floor. "I... I've stolen from you," he confessed.

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, the Vicomte enquired just what he had stolen.

"I've taken your cigarettes, sir, and your wine."

Raoul stared at him, taken aback, then laughed. "A few cigarettes isn't so bad as all that — and if you want a glass of wine with your dinner, just get one from the kitchen, that's already arranged for."

Pierre shook his head. "But I've taken the best wine, reserved for the high table, and as for the cigarettes... well, I'm afraid it was more than a few."

Raoul sighed and wondered what he should do. On the one hand he greatly valued Pierre, and also approved of the fact that he had come to confess — but how ought he to react now?

After a while Pierre asked, almost fearfully, "What will you do with me now?"

"I don't know," admitted the Vicomte. "What would you do in my place?"

Pierre didn't consider for long. "Give me a thrashing and drive me off."

"Are you serious?" Raoul could scarcely believe it. Pierre nodded and bowed his head, his hands clasped behind his back.

Raoul made a decision. "I'll take it out of your wages."

Pierre stared at him, astonished. "Is that all?"

"Of course it is — I'm certainly not going to throw you out over a handful of cigarettes that I didn't even know I had. In the future just ask when you want something, understood?"

"You are too generous, Monsieur," said Pierre, and made a bow. "I'm truly sorry and it won't happen again."

Raoul nodded, and asked "You haven't stolen anything else, have you?"

"No, of course not!" cried Pierre, and seemed almost indignant. "I didn't want to steal anything; I simply hadn't thought about the wine and the cigarettes. It was much later that it occurred to me that this was also theft, and that's why I want to settle the matter. It's just that I simply hadn't thought about it... but I've never taken anything of any worth from you, let alone money."

* * *

 _(continued...)_


	7. Spring and summer (cont)

**Spring and summer** (cont.)

In August the de Chagny family were sitting on the terrace in the shade, enjoying the summer afternoon, when a stable lad came running from the stables behind the chateau.

"Monsieur, you must come at once!" he called, still some way off. Raoul got up and followed him to the stable block and coachhouse behind the chateau. Carriages and horses for use by the owner were kept there, since the stud farm was not directly close by.

The door to the stables was shut and muffled shouts and whinnying of horses could be heard from within. "We need to go in by the side entrance," said the boy, and opened the small door. Raoul had to stoop to enter.

Inside the stable he could see Maurice Dubois, who had taken refuge in an empty box while stable hands were standing at the ends of the wide central aisle. In this passageway itself was the big grey stallion that Pierre had ridden, behaving as if it had gone mad. Pierre sat bareback astride the horse.

"Come to your senses, man!" shouted Maurice from his hiding-place.

Pierre shouted back "Open the door, now!" None of the stable hands made any move to obey the order. The grey reared, struck out with his forefeet and made three leaps forward before coming back down on all four legs. He danced nervously backwards to his starting position, where he pawed at the ground and nodded his head.

One of the lads tried to approach. Pierre yelled at him "Stay away from me!" and in the next moment the grey stallion sprang into the air and struck out with his back legs before landing once more and remaining at a standstill.

"What's going on here?" shouted Raoul.

Pierre calmed the horse. "I won't allow him to be sent for slaughter!"

"Who would want him to be slaughtered?" said Raoul, bewildered.

At this point Maurice dared to venture out of the box. He explained that the grey devil of a brute was to be sold for slaughter and that Pierre had gone crazy when he heard.

"Both of you come to my study, and we'll talk about this," ordered Raoul.

"Will you give me your word, sir, that he won't be killed in the meantime?" said Pierre.

"I will," answered the Vicomte, who was wondering more and more what had just happened. The warning that Pierre had given him came back to mind, in which the old soldier had compared himself to a savage dog who soils the carpet.

Given that the stallion had been acting earlier as if he had gone crazy, Pierre had remarkably little trouble in getting him back into his box. Then the three men returned to the chateau and the Vicomte's study, where the latter took his place behind his desk like a judge while the bickering pair sat in front of him.

"Why can't you just get along together?" asked the Vicomte, frustrated. Both the men stared at the floor like guilty schoolboys and said nothing. Raoul sighed. "Don't make things so difficult!"

Maurice began, "My responsibility as steward is to sort out those horses that are no longer of any use. These are sold to the knacker's yard."

"But Othello isn't a knackered-out horse!" yelled Pierre. "He's an outstanding animal — I can't understand why he hasn't been used for showing or as a stud."

"He gives the devil a new name!" groaned Maurice.

Pierre would not be swayed. "He was ruined by the man who broke him in, that's all. The poor thing is simply terrified of humans. It took a long time before I understood that, but since I found out how to handle him he's proved himself to be a superb horse. If you bred from him, his offspring would be unbeatable in the dressage ring or on the racecourse."

"That stallion is by far and away the ugliest horse here in the stud — he has a vicious nature and a completely unmanageable temperament," Maurice pointed out calmly. "He's absolutely useless."

"And so you want him slaughtered just because he's ugly?" Pierre shouted, his voice cracking with rage. "Did you see his _levade_? Didn't you see how he leapt in the _capriole_? Do you have the faintest idea about horseflesh at all?"

Raoul broke in. "Wait a minute — _levade_? _Capriole_? Are you trying to say that the stallion wasn't going completely wild?"

"No, of course not," growled Pierre. His expression and body language were suddenly reminiscent of a raging wolf. "I had him under control the whole time. I told you he was an outstanding animal."

"He costs money to keep and brings in none," retorted Maurice.

"You — where you're concerned everything comes down to nothing more than figures on paper!" snarled Pierre, and Raoul half expected to see him snap like a hound, so strongly did he give the impression of a wolf.

"That's my job," retorted Maurice, unimpressed.

"In that case I'll buy him," Pierre proposed.

"You couldn't afford it."

"I won't pay any more than the knacker will."

"And the cost of his keep? The devil of a brute could live another good ten years, and you couldn't afford that, not on your wages."

Raoul took a decision to put an end to the dispute. He had heard enough to form his own ideas. "Monsieur Bertrand, Dubois is right — you couldn't afford a horse. And another thing: what was the meaning of all that to-do in the stable?"

Now Pierre no longer looked angry but more like a dog whose master had struck him over the muzzle with a rolled-up newspaper. "My temper got away from me," he admitted sheepishly. "I wanted to take the horse to safety so that he wouldn't be sold for slaughter tomorrow."

"In other words, you wanted to steal him," Maurice observed drily.

"No!" flung back Pierre. "Not to steal him! I would have brought him back as soon as you promised not to sell him."

Raoul sighed. "Gentlemen — don't you think you're taking far too emotional an approach to the issue?"

Pierre swallowed, then answered hoarsely: "He can't help it that he is ugly and that the horse-breaker ruined him."

"Are you trying to tell me that you have feelings over a horse?" jibed Maurice, and Pierre's fists clenched on his trousers as if he were obliged to clutch onto something to keep himself from strangling Maurice with his bare hands.

"Monsieur Dubois, leave us for a moment, please," ordered Raoul. When the steward was out of the room, he turned to Pierre, who had sunk down on the settee with his head in his hands. "You do know there's something in what he says, don't you?"

"Yes — from the point of view of strict economy," Pierre admitted against his will, looking up at the Vicomte, who was standing directly in front of him, leaning against the desk.

"But you're fond of the animal?"

Pierre nodded.

"And my good steward is absolutely correct in saying that you can't afford a horse?" continued Raoul, and Pierre nodded again.

"So why did you make all that song and dance in the stables, instead of coming to me and asking me not to sell the horse?" Raoul practically yelled at him, and Pierre flinched and cringed away.

Finally he answered, ashamed, "I'm sorry, sir. I was in the wrong — but I was afraid the stallion would disappear right away, I... I know he belongs to you, sir, you can do what you like with him, but..."

He broke off and said nothing.

"You see yourself reflected in Othello — am I right?" prompted Raoul, and Pierre nodded and stared down at his hands.

Raoul sighed. "Very well. We'll reach an agreement. Provided you don't get up to any more nonsense, Othello will remain in the stables and be at your disposal when we ride out together. But if you cause trouble one more time, he'll be made into mincemeat. Agreed?"

Pierre nodded in silence.

~o~

That evening Raoul told his wife what had happened.

"I just don't know what to make of it." He sighed. "On the one hand I'm touched at Bertrand's fighting to save the life of this horse, on the other I'm very disappointed in him. Instead of simply coming to me and asking for something, he puts himself and others into danger."

Christine said nothing for a while. Then she asked "And he named the horse Othello?"

"Yes, on account of his ungovernable temperament."

Christine was silent again. She could not say why, but all at once she had the feeling that something here was definitely not as it should be. She couldn't say exactly what, but something was not at all right.

* * *

A couple of weeks later Raoul rode out to the paddock where the young horses to be broken in were kept. Pierre and Maurice accompanied him on the inspection as usual.

Next to the paddock was a little fenced-off space where the breaking-in took place. A fat, heavy-set man was sitting on a horse that was downright grey with sweat and bleeding at the mouth from the curb-bit, and raking the animal's flanks with his spurs.

"Stop that!" shouted Raoul. "Down off that horse at once!"

The fat man groaned and let himself slip off the horse. Pierre sprang over the fence and caught the distressed animal, led it carefully back and handed it over to a stableboy. Together they took off the saddle and bridle and began to rub it down with soft cloths.

The horse-breaker went towards Raoul and climbed laboriously over the fence. Immediately Pierre let fall his cloth and jumped back over the fence to stand beside Raoul. Both could smell at once that the man was drunk.

"What is it, Monsieur?" the man asked, trying to appear friendly.

"What was all that about?" asked Raoul, barely controlling his rage.

"The brute won't do as he's told — I had to punish him," the man explained. "You have to break a horse's will before you can break him in."

Pierre turned away and retched suddenly. He tried to master himself, but he simply couldn't manage it and had to throw up. Raoul looked at him in surprise.

"Bertrand, are you all right?" he asked in concern.

"Yes, yes, too much breakfast — that's all." Pierre waved him aside and wiped his beard with a handkerchief. Then he took a deep breath and stationed himself again beside Raoul.

"You're ruining my horses!" snapped out Raoul. "I can't put up with this."

"When the brutes won't obey of their own accord, I break their will — then they're good as gold," insisted the rider.

"You're drunk, man!" snarled Maurice, who was standing somewhat apart from the others but had also noticed the man's condition.

"How can you let such a man deal with horses?" Pierre demanded of him.

"Please... he's been here for twenty years, he's one of our best..." Maurice protested defensively.

"Perhaps he was — once," retorted Pierre, and his voice held an edge of ice that brought a shiver to Maurice. "But now he's a drunken wreck who tortures horses."

"What d'you call me?" demanded the horse-breaker.

"You answer to ME," snapped the Vicomte. "And if you continue, you'll ruin more of my horses. You're dismissed without notice — get your things and be gone!"

"Dismissed?" The rider was taken completely by surprise. "You can't do that!"

"Can't I just?" answered Raoul, between his teeth.

"How could you? After I've given twenty years of my life?" It was a whine.

Just then the stable boy reported that the young horse's flanks were deeply wounded by the spurs, and that it was uncertain whether he might not have to be put down.

"Get out!" Raoul shouted at the horse-breaker. "And woe betide you if I ever catch you near my horses again — may God have mercy on you then, for I shall have none. How many have you already cost me? Well? How many? I ought to have you arrested!"

The fat rider made off, cursing loudly, and Raoul turned to Maurice. "Why haven't you already sacked him years ago?"

"I didn't know he drank and misused the horses," the steward excused himself. "He has been here so long — I trusted him."

* * *

The following afternoon, a servant reported that the dismissed rider was asking to see the Vicomte.

"Don't let him in," warned Pierre.

"He says he wants to apologise."

"All the same, don't let him in," said Pierre, still distrustful.

"Monsieur Bertrand — everyone deserves a second chance. You above all should appreciate that," Raoul said sharply, and Pierre bit his lip.

The horse-breaker staggered as he entered Raoul's study. Raoul was sitting behind his desk, while Pierre leant against the front of the desk and kept an eagle eye on the man who had just come in.

"What do you want?" asked Raoul.

"To apologise," said the rider. "And my job back."

"You're drunk again!" snapped Raoul.

"You can't do this to me — I've worked twenty years for your family, you can't just chase me off like some mangy dog..."

"I can — now get out." Raoul had made his decision.

"You've ruined my life!" the fat man screamed suddenly, and then everything happened in a flash: he drew a gun that he had hidden under his jacket, Pierre instantly drew his own weapon, and two shots rang out at once.

The rider collapsed. Pierre's shot had hit him in the face. Pierre staggered back and clutched his shoulder. Raoul sat as if frozen to the spot; he simply couldn't grasp what had just taken place.

Pierre turned slowly towards Raoul, and the latter saw that Pierre was bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder.

"Are you hit?" asked Pierre, and Raoul shook his head. "Then the shot didn't pass through. Get me the doctor!"

Raoul sprang to his feet and ran to the door, where servants were already arriving from all directions after hearing the shots. "The doctor — quickly!" he shouted, then returned to Pierre, who had sat down on the floor and was leaning back against the desk.

"Is it bad?" he asked.

"I'll let you know once the doctor's here," Pierre jerked out between clenched teeth.

It seemed to take forever for the doctor to arrive, but in fact it was only a few minutes. A ghastly scene presented itself to the doctor's sight: one man lay obviously dead on the floor and the other sat wounded with the helpless Vicomte beside him.

Dr Martin shoved the Vicomte aside and cut open Pierre's coat and shirt with a large pair of scissors so that he didn't have to move his wounded arm. Pierre groaned, then looked at the Vicomte. "Do me a favour — close the door behind you when you go out."

Raoul nodded and left. Only when he was outside did it occur to him that he had no reason at all to obey Pierre's orders. But he could understand his desire to remain undisturbed while undergoing the doctor's ministrations.

It wasn't long before the doctor came back out.

"He's lucky," he reported. "The gun was badly loaded and the bullet didn't penetrate very far; I was able to extract it and clean the wound. All that's needed now is plenty of rest and a nourishing diet, and he'll be sound again."

At that point Pierre came to the door. His right shoulder was bandaged and his right arm was in a sling, and he had hung his coat across his shoulders to shroud his body.

"You shouldn't have got up," the doctor scolded him.

"You can carry me out feet first when I'm dead," growled Pierre. "For the moment, just let me through."

* * *

Only when the worst of the commotion had subsided did it occur to Raoul to notify the police. There was a dead body, and that couldn't simply be disposed of. Two policemen turned up and questioned everyone — save Pierre, whom the doctor declared to be in no fit state for interrogation — made notes, and finally announced that they would report it to the examining magistrate as a case of self-defence.

At midday Christine and Raoul insisted on delivering Pierre's lunch to the gatehouse themselves. Christine knocked on the door and the dogs immediately started to bark, although more in a friendly way than in aggression.

"Wait a moment — I'm coming," called Pierre, and they heard shuffling steps. Something fell to the floor, Pierre cursed, and finally the door opened.

"Madame, Monsieur... I wasn't expecting a visit..." he said in embarrassment. He was wearing a battered dressing-gown and had taken off the sling on his right arm.

"We've brought you some lunch," said Christine. "May we come in?"

Pierre cast a critical look around his room, then said with a sigh "If you'll promise me not to make a fuss about the mess..." and went back in, where he sat down on the bed. The three dogs were lying there. There was also a table and a chest, as well as a chair. On the table lay a disassembled pistol, which Pierre had clearly been in the middle of oiling at the time when the horse-breaker arrived.

Christine took the little pot out of her basket, together with napkin and cutlery. "Where shall I put it?" she asked.

"Just give it to me, thanks," replied Pierre. He put the pot down next to him on the bed and began to eat with his left hand. His three dogs watched every bite that he ate.

"You should move into the chateau," suggested Christine. "I can't allow a man who has saved all our lives to live out here in such poor conditions when so many rooms are standing empty. And besides, we would be able to take better care of you. It's the least we can do. You can move your things across when your arm is better."

Pierre asked if he would be able to take his dogs with him. Raoul and Christine discussed this quietly, and Raoul gave his consent.

"I'd like to consider you as a member of the family — a kind of uncle to Marie," Christine said. "Only if it's all right with you, of course?"

Pierre hesitated not a moment before accepting the generous offer.


	8. Convalescence

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E. M. K. 81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Convalescence**

In the days that followed, Pierre's status among the inhabitants of the chateau altered enormously. The Vicomte and Vicomtesse had resolved to treat Pierre as a beloved uncle, but all at once to the rest of the household he was no longer the crazy old man who was best avoided, but a hero admired for his courage.

He shared breakfast with the Vicomte, Vicomtesse, and Dr Martin and his wife. Much to the doctor's disapproval, he was already making use of his right hand.

"This is a croissant," he growled, "it's not exactly heavy. And I'm taking care of myself, anyway."

At that moment the cook came to the table to ask what she should cook for lunch especially so that dear Monsieur Bertrand might recover his strength. "Since when have I been 'dear Monsieur Bertrand', and not the crazy cur you wanted to knock over the head with a frying pan?" enquired Pierre, amused.

"But Monsieur Bertrand, that was just a joke. Surely a dashing officer like you can understand a little bit of fun?"

"Who said I was an officer?" said Pierre, still with the amused note in his voice.

"My dear Monsieur Bertrand, it's obvious: you're far too intelligent and have such a natural authority. You couldn't be a simple soldier."

"Natural authority?" retorted Pierre. "Wasn't it 'confounded arrogance' a couple of days back?"

Christine dispatched the cook off to the kitchen with orders for a nourishing menu with plenty of meat. She had barely left the room before Christine turned to the others in their little group. "It looks to me as if our good Babette has fallen in love with Monsieur Bertrand!"

Madame Martin smiled knowingly, and Pierre stared down at the table in embarrassment and acted as if he hadn't heard.

"I too have the impression that you were more than just an ordinary soldier," put in Raoul. Pierre said nothing.

"But that's nothing to be ashamed of," said Madame Martin. Pierre remained silent. "Do tell us something about your adventures?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil your appetite, Madame." As she continued to press him, Pierre cast a glance at Dr Martin, shaking his head slightly.

The doctor nodded, and told his wife "Darling, that can be of no interest to us."

"But I—"

"No, you don't," insisted Dr Martin, and gave a nod to Pierre, who responded with a smile. Some kind of silent communication passed between the doctor and Bertrand, as if the two shared a secret.

"Oh, men!" complained Madame Martin to the Vicomtesse. "Always thinking they have to treat us women as if we were children."

"That's not my experience," said Christine, with a loving look in Raoul's direction.

* * *

That morning Pierre was sitting according to the doctor's orders in a comfortable chair on the terrace, watching his dogs play in the garden. "May I sit with you?" asked Raoul, and drew up a stool.

"I don't understand why you're making such a secret out of it — it's an honour to be an officer," he began.

Pierre brushed him off. "I don't want to talk about it. Let it be answer enough for you, sir, that I have been responsible for so much death and suffering that even today I have nightmares from time to time. I am ashamed of what I have done and of the strategies I planned."

"So you were actually planning strategies?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I wish I had been a little less ambitious in that line. And before you ask — I don't want to speak of it."

"There's something else we need to talk about," said the Vicomte, changing the subject. "Now that you're wounded, we need to consider the safety of the chateau."

Pierre nodded, and made a visible effort to remain professional. "I think I can take up my night watch duties again by next week at the latest. Until then, the dogs are in the garden. Even if I can't fight, at least I can raise the alarm. On the other hand, I ask myself whether you are still in danger at all."

"What makes you think that?" asked Raoul.

"Because absolutely nothing has happened. Perhaps Erik has given up," Pierre suggested. "At the very least something ought to indicate his presence."

"I don't think so. My wife is absolutely sure that Erik would never give up, and that he is after our blood."

"But perhaps he has found something else more satisfying than your death?" interjected Pierre.

"What gives you that idea?"

Pierre sighed. Then he answered slowly, his face averted, "I never told you what I did when my girl married another man. To start off with I wanted to throttle the wretch, but then I came to know him. He... he's a good man. A better man than I ever was or could be.

"And for my part, I think it's entirely possible that by now Erik is occupied with something completely different."

~o~

Raoul considered for a while. Then he decided to talk it over with Christine.

Christine was convinced it was out of the question that Erik would give up or concern himself with anything else. "You don't know him. You haven't heard his terrible threats and vows of vengeance — the thunder of his voice, his flaming eyes! He swore that if I left him, he would prepare for me a fate so dreadful that I would beg for death. If I destroyed him, then he would do the same with me."

"But your life is a good one?" prompted Raoul gently.

"Oh yes, I'm happy," Christine answered firmly. "We're together, we have a wonderful daughter, and it's so quiet and peaceful here — I love it."

"You don't miss Paris?" Raoul was worried.

"No, not one bit. Neither Paris nor society nor the Opera. I never liked social obligations, and for me to be an opera singer was my father's wish — and later Erik's — but never mine. I love music and singing, but I've never got over my stage fright... I truly like to sing, but not in front of critics and the public. Oh Raoul, this life we live here is closer to my dreams than anything else could be!"

She embraced her husband lovingly.

~o~

Shortly afterwards the nursemaid came in and announced excitedly that Marie was talking. Raoul and Christine ran at once to the baby's room, where Pierre was standing by the cot and smiling happily. Marie sat upright and said "Mamamamamamamamama".

"She said Mama!" cried Christine, rejoicing. "Can you say Papa? Papa, say Papa!"

"Bababababababa," babbled Marie.

"And she can say Papa." Raoul was delighted.

Marie laughed and grabbed for Pierre. "Lalalalalalalamamamamamapamapama," she announced, and gurgled happily. Pierre played with her again, allowing her to capture his hand, which earned a happy comment of "lalalalalala" from Marie.

"Either 'Lala' means playing, or she's using it to mean me," Pierre said, without looking away for so much as a moment. "You can be proud — Marie is indeed a clever child."

* * *

A few days later, Christine turned to Pierre during their evening meal. "Did you tell our good cook at some point that you were fond of chicken?"

Pierre looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"

Christine laughed. "Because for weeks past we've had nothing but chicken!"

"Why," added Madame Martin, "are you the only one not to have noticed that Babette has got her eye on you?"

Pierre looked away in embarrassment and muttered something incomprehensible.

"So talk to her," was Christine's friendly suggestion.

"What's the good of that? I've got no interest in her," retorted Pierre, "so it wouldn't be fair to get her hopes up."

"But she really is a pleasant, jolly woman and a good cook," put in Madame Martin, and Christine continued: "She's almost always good-humoured — it's just that you've been ignoring her. Do go and have a talk to her, and maybe..."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Pierre, blinking in confusion. "Are you trying to pair me off?"

Raoul sighed. "Simply talk to the woman..."

And Dr Martin added, with a meaningful glance at his wife, "Then at least I shan't have to hear endlessly about the poor lovesick cook."

Pierre stared at his plate as if any desire to eat had suddenly vanished.

He excused himself and marched straight in the direction of the kitchen. Christine and Madame Martin jumped up and crept after him, both of them as excited as a pair of schoolgirls. They were dying to know how it would turn out. Even if Christine would not admit it, she and Madame Martin found this thrilling and had already discussed helping poor Babette.

Pierre's actions were far from polite. He flung open the kitchen door and went straight up to the cook, who was busy mixing a cake.

"You wanted to speak to me, Madame?" he said roughly.

"Why, Monsieur Bertrand, how kind of you to come and visit me," replied Babette, and smiled at him.

Christine and Madame Martin positioned themselves behind the kitchen door, eavesdropping. They could see Pierre only from behind and Babette not at all, but that didn't matter.

"People are talking about you," observed Pierre. "Do I gather that you supposedly have designs upon my person?"

"Could you make that a bit less formal? Or do I need to put in my application in triplicate?"

Pierre was clearly too bewildered to answer. He stood there as stiff as a broomstick and his shoulders tensed visibly.

Finally he said "Madame, please don't misunderstand me... I really have no desire to hurt your feelings or to offend you, but... You should know that I..." He broke off, searching for the words. "I'm not a marrying man."

Babette stared at him, taken aback, and laughed.

"But my dear Monsieur Bertrand, who spoke of marriage? I've got five children, all with different fathers, three wonderful grandchildren — and I've never been married. I'm not getting married and letting some man tell me how to run my life! I'd rather admit regularly at confession that I've had another affair. So you don't have to have the slightest worry that I'll try to tie you down; if we turn out not to suit, you won't hear any reproaches from me. I don't hold a grudge. Life's too short."

At that instant Madame Martin couldn't help giggling. Pierre heard and turned round.

"Madame de Chagny — Madame Martin," he said in a tone of reproach, "I believe you are playing an unkind trick at my expense." And he shut the door.

"What a pity," Madame Martin said with a giggle. "Now we can't hear what happens next." The two women were enjoying enormously being as foolish as schoolgirls: it is the small pleasures in life that allow you to forget your cares.

"That really was a bit silly," observed Raoul as the two ladies returned to the table, and Dr Martin also shook his head disapprovingly.

"Oh, let us be," said Christine, excusing herself. "How often do I have anything to laugh about here?"

"Perhaps," remarked Dr Martin with a smile, "our good Babette will manage to cheer up Monsieur Bertrand a little."

~o~

It was not long before the whole staff at the chateau was talking about nothing but the oddly-assorted couple. Were they having an affair or not? Pierre was tall and thin, Babette short and round. Pierre's manner was cold, often irritable, cynical and wounding; Babette was generally good-tempered, a strong-minded woman who could stand up for herself against men. Pierre cared little for food; Babette knew how to value good cooking, as anyone could see by looking at her.

But all the same, they got on quite well together. Was it a case of opposites attracting, or not? However it was, as time went by Pierre grew more relaxed and more patient.

Thus passed the autumn.

* * *

One evening Christine was looking down from her bedroom window. It was a foggy November night and the full moon was shining through a veil of mist — a true gloomy and eerie atmosphere.

As usual she could see grey shapes in the garden, but they caused her no concern since it meant only that Pierre was again on guard. Suddenly the shape on the horse looked up at her with two glowing eyes. Christine cried out in horror and recoiled. Pierre had only one eye, and that was a normal brown one with a colour like dark honey. But the shape on the horse had two eyes that shone green.

Raoul was at her side at once, asking what was wrong.

"There... on the horse... two eyes," stammered Christine, aghast.

Raoul looked out of the window and saw that the shape on the horse had shifted. In the moonlight the head of a wolf was clearly visible — a gigantic wolf was sitting on the horse and riding to and fro in the garden.

He rubbed his eyes. "It... it's a wolf. But werewolves are only a myth..."

"And the Phantom of the Opera is only a ghost-story," returned Christine, trembling. "But we know just how much truth lies behind that."

At that moment a knock fell on the door.

"Is everything all right?" called Pierre. When there came no reply, he thrust open the door.

Raoul and Christine were in their dressing-gowns and staring out of the window, aghast. "What's wrong?" he repeated, and now Christine reacted.

"You.. you're here? But... but... then who or what is that?"

Pierre glanced out of the window, then laughed. "That's Cerberus. I put him up on Othello just now so that he could take my place while I took a short break. I've been practising the trick for a long time, but this is the first time it's worked."

Raoul, who was still very pale, let out a breath. "At first sight it looked as if you had turned into a wolf."

"Yes, that was the idea," confirmed Pierre, amused. "It might terrify an attacker, and if not, then at least no-one would be prepared for a dog who can ride."

"In the future, let us know what you're up to," snapped Raoul. "You scared us half to death."

"By all means. Tomorrow morning I'll show you the whole thing by daylight."

~o~

The next morning the Vicomte and his wife stood on the terrace to see what Pierre had trained his animals to do.

Pierre took a straw dummy and set it up in the garden. Then he rode casually past the dummy, and the moment it was in range the horse lashed out backwards and knocked off the target's straw head with its hind hooves. The dogs sat by with wagging tails and waited to be allowed to join in the game.

First Pierre had to put the dummy back together again; then he took Cerberus in his arms and seated him on the horse. Both animals were quite calm, as if they had long been used to it.

Othello approached the target again, and Cerberus stood up on the horse's back and sprang onto the straw man from above, seizing it by the neck. "Good, very good," said Pierre, praising the animals and giving them titbits from the bag on his shoulder.

Then he set up the straw dummy once more. The three dogs sat wriggling impatiently, waiting for the signal to start.

"Attack!" commanded Pierre, and the dogs flung themselves on the target. Scylla bit it in the left leg, Charybdis in the right arm and Cerberus went directly for the throat. Then all three tore at the dummy with much growling.

The onlookers watched this macabre performance with horror. Pierre took the steps up to the terrace and looked at them both.

"You've taught your animals to kill people?" said Christine, appalled.

Pierre nodded. "Of course. A defensive weapon is more effective if it is set in motion automatically, without needing to be operated by a human. I can break off the attack at any time, since the dogs always grip in the same order: first Scylla on the leg, then Charybdis on the arm, and then finally, if I haven't in the meantime ordered a halt, Cerberus on the neck. In this way, it's guaranteed that the dogs will overwhelm any attacker who has already put me out of action. And naturally Othello can also eliminate a man, although I trained him mainly as a warhorse. He will attack only with me on his back."

"And how do you make sure the dogs don't attack the wrong man?" asked Raoul. The whole business gave him the creeps.

"Very easily — at night, no-one other than myself and the animals is outside. That's what they're used to. And even at night they would let someone go out, but no-one enter. During the day they let anyone come in, because they're accustomed to that. And besides, they won't attack anyone whom they like. You are completely safe: even if I were to give the dogs the order to attack, they would do nothing to you. Not to you, and not to Marie either. Babette, who is always feeding them scraps from the kitchen, is safe too. Mercifully I haven't needed to try this out in an emergency, though, since so far no attack has taken place."

The dogs had successfully dismantled the straw dummy, and came back to their master with wagging tails in order to be stroked. They ran up to Raoul and Christine as well, wanting to play. Christine had been quicker to compose herself, and now stroked the dogs cautiously; they lay down and wriggled on their backs in front of her to get her to scratch their bellies.

"I'm not happy with the idea of having such dangerous animals near Marie," she told Pierre.

"I would never leave them alone with her. That stands to reason. But I've already introduced them to Marie, and you'd be amazed how much patience the three of them have with her."

"You've done WHAT?" said Raoul, shocked.

"I let Marie play with them. She climbs around on them and yanks their ears, tails and sometimes even their tongues. The dogs adore her," responded Pierre as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"That's irresponsible of you!" said Christine angrily. "You have no right to put Marie in danger!"

"She's not in danger — the danger for her would be if my dogs weren't familiar with her!"

"You're impossible — you know that?" said Raoul, with a sigh. "Will you at least promise me never to leave Marie alone with the dogs?"

"That goes without saying," replied Pierre. "I would never, ever put Marie in danger. I would do my utmost at any time in order to take care of her."

Raoul glanced involuntarily at Pierre's wounded shoulder which he was rubbing absent-mindedly, although by now he had almost completely regained normal use of the arm.

"That I can believe," murmured the Vicomte.


	9. Discord before Christmas

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Discord before Christmas**

At the beginning of December the parish priest came to call on the Vicomte. There was nothing remarkable in that; what was unusual was the reason behind his visit. The priest expressed great concern about the spiritual welfare of those in the chateau, given that the cook and the officer were clearly having an affair. He gave the Vicomte to understand that he should on no account permit the two of them to make a respectable house into a den of ill-repute.

The Vicomte was of the private opinion that immorality was not catching. But he promised that he would have a talk with the two wrongdoers.

He picked a particularly inopportune moment for this, for when he summoned the two of them there was first of all an uncommonly long wait, and then the couple appeared arm in arm, laughing and joking. When the Vicomte mentioned the priest's concerns, Babette was highly indignant.

"He's a fine one to talk! Why, he was the father of my middle daughter!"

Pierre broke out into uncommonly loud laughter. The whole business was to him clearly nothing more than a joke.

"Monsieur Bertrand, kindly control yourself!" snapped the Vicomte. "I have to protect the reputation of this house."

"Says the man who went and married a prima donna," retorted Pierre, before becoming abruptly sober and apologising on the instant. "That was completely uncalled-for. Forgive me, sir — sometimes I speak without thinking."

"If you have serious intentions where Babette is concerned..." began the Vicomte, but Babette contradicted him.

"Then I should marry him? Him? I wouldn't dream of it — he's a possessive egotist!"

"Many thanks," returned Pierre drily. "If I spend so much time with you, my dear, it's only because my dogs are so fond of you."

"Do you think I'd have taken up with you if I'd had any decent alternative?"

"Why, it's only out of pity that I..."

"Then it looks as if the priest has been worrying over nothing," interrupted the Vicomte, who took the squabble between them at face value. Then he saw that Babette and Pierre, far from appearing angry, looked as if they were enjoying themselves.

"I'm afraid you picked a bad moment to give us a talking-to, sir," explained Pierre. "You see, we've just shared a bottle of your best wine."

And the ill-assorted couple broke into giggles.

"You're simply impossible," Raoul said with a groan. "It was more than one bottle, wasn't it?"

Babette nodded shamefacedly, and Pierre pretended not to have heard. He was an expert at that; if there was something he didn't want to hear, he would turn a deaf ear to it.

"But you know I could have you sacked over this," Raoul pointed out. The effect of his words was as if he had just poured a pail of cold water over the two of them.

"Oh, you wouldn't do that?" begged Babette. "I've never made any secret of my way of life — it's never been a problem before."

Raoul cast an upward glance at the heavens for patience. "What's your suggestion?" Pierre asked him.

"Get married — or put an end to the affair. Or at least regularise things by getting engaged; an engagement can always be broken off again."

The other two thought this over for a while, then whispered together. "Very well," said Pierre finally, "we'll get engaged. But the marriage date will be set for the 31st of February."

"I'll marry you on February 31st," replied Babette, and they both burst into laughter.

"Go and sleep it off!" snapped Raoul. "In separate rooms — even if you care nothing for your own reputations, I have to take care of the reputation of this house. And if that means dismissing one of you, then I will."

Pierre made an accomplished bow, which would have made a better impression if he had not had the hiccups. "As Monsieur wishes. Come, my dear fiancée, be a good girl and come along. You can sew on my coat-buttons."

"Of course I will, my dear. And you can sharpen the knives for me." The pair of them went off arm in arm, still giggling foolishly, and Raoul shook his head over the business.

It was far from easy to run an estate. Raoul, who was accustomed to the same moral codes in Paris but also accustomed to the fact that affairs took place and were looked upon as normal, had no objections to secret goings-on; but the way the old couple were going about it was completely unacceptable.

"Congratulate us — we're engaged and getting married on the 31st of February!" the cook called out to everyone, and Raoul sighed. Couldn't the two of them just keep their affair secret like all the others? He had no doubt that — morals or no morals — more than enough liaisons went on and more than enough girls in the villages were single mothers, but Pierre and Babette seemed hell-bent on putting their affair on parade.

He just hoped that he wouldn't actually be forced to send one of them away. Babette was a marvellous cook, and she stood by Christine as unfailingly as if Christine had been her own daughter. Pierre was Marie's godfather and had saved Raoul's life, so he could scarcely dismiss him — quite apart from the fact that Pierre was irreplaceable.

Then, one day, the man who had gone to fetch the post for the chateau as usual from the village and was distributing it among the recipients came across a letter addressed to one "P.F.E. Bertrand".

"That can only be Pierre Bertrand," Raoul concluded, and instructed the man to pass the letter on to Pierre, who was taken entirely by surprise; he had never previously had any post and was not expecting any. But since there was no other Bertrand living at the chateau, he accepted the letter. A single glance at the handwriting turned him as white as a sheet. He vanished into his bedroom and locked himself in.

Shortly thereafter, he requested two days' leave of absence from the Vicomte. "I know I'm not entitled to it, but the letter contained an urgent message and I need to settle this affair," he said awkwardly. "I have no alternative."

Raoul was taken completely aback. "Can't you take care of it by post? I need you here to attend to our security — what if this is just some trick to draw you away?"

Pierre shook his head vigorously. "No. THIS handwriting, I know. I know the man who wrote it, and... he would never work together with Erik, never. Please, Monsieur de Chagny. Forty-eight hours is all that I ask."

Raoul sighed, and gave Pierre permission to leave.

* * *

When Pierre had ridden off, Christine found Babette weeping in the kitchen. She was stroking the three dogs, which looked equally miserable.

"What's wrong?" asked the Vicomtesse in amazement.

"Pierre is acting so strangely... He told me he might not come back, and in case that happened he'd left sealed letters with Dr Martin. The doctor is supposed to give them to you and to me if Pierre's not back here in seventy-two hours' time... oh, I'm so afraid I'll never see him again!"

Christine sat down next to the cook and put a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"Pierre Bertrand has got the better of many dangerous situations before," she offered as comfort. "I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow. And you know what? You ought to bake a cake for him. He'll be hungry when he gets back."

~o~

In fact, Pierre returned after almost exactly forty-eight hours. His stallion, Othello, was so exhausted that — most unusually for a horse — he lay down in his box to sleep, and Pierre could hardly walk. Babette flung her arms around his neck, overjoyed, and Pierre returned the embrace, although it looked as if he needed to hang onto Babette in order to stay on his feet.

"What was wrong?" Raoul asked in concern, his wife having informed him earlier of Babette's worries.

"I know I owe you an explanation, sir, but... over the last two days I've spent a full forty hours in the saddle. Just at this moment I can't clear my head. Couldn't we please postpone it until later?" And he looked so exhausted that no-one pressed him any further.

The next day, Pierre got back from Dr Martin the two letters he had prepared in advance, and put them on the fire. Raoul now insisted on an explanation.

"I've made a few enemies in the course of my life," said Pierre, "and this one is particularly dogged. He has been hunting me for far too long, but this time I outmanoeuvred myself and had to do what he demanded. You've no need to worry — it's nothing illegal, nothing forbidden, not even morally dubious. After all these years he is as tired of the game as I am, and in future I think we'll be leaving each other alone."

"You too have a pursuer?" exclaimed Raoul.

"Yes, unfortunately. But you have no need to fear him, sir. He would never endanger innocents."

"And why is he after you?"

Pierre squirmed as if he had suddenly been taken with pains in his belly. "Please don't insist on an answer," he said unhappily.

This time, however, the Vicomte decided to insist. "I killed his son," replied Pierre, and rubbed at his temples as if he suddenly had a headache.

* * *

After this episode, Pierre sank into a constantly irritable state. He couldn't endure having to talk to anyone or even to lay eyes on other people. The only one who could make him smile was Marie, whom he visited regularly as before and for whom he had carved a little wooden horse with which they played together. The game went as follows: Marie would throw the horse away and Pierre would bring it back to her, upon which she would hurl it away again, laughing, to be brought back. Otherwise no-one could get anywhere with Pierre, who was becoming ever more strained and nervy.

It didn't take long before another quarrel broke out that obliged the Vicomte to intervene. This time it was once again Pierre Bertrand and Maurice Dubois who were at loggerheads. Pierre had once again become worked up over the fermentation cellar, and Maurice retorted that the rebuilding could take place just as soon as their financial reserves were large enough.

"There have already been problems this autumn," Pierre complained.

"When? What problems? Seen by who? Names, dates, figures, facts!" demanded Maurice.

"Why, you... you book-keeper, you!" Pierre spat out, as if 'book-keeper' were an obscenity.

"With you everything is always so vague, nothing concrete," Maurice countered, "so how is anyone supposed to verify it?"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Raoul, "perhaps you could clarify for me exactly what the problem is."

"I was in the fermentation cellar this autumn and there was gas there," said Pierre. "I had a candle, and below knee-height it immediately went out."

"And when precisely was this?" said Maurice.

"How should I know? I don't even know what day of the week today is, and that makes no difference to me either."

"So there's no way I can possibly check, as yet again you're telling me something without figures, dates or facts," Maurice snarled.

"You're not going to make a bean-counter out of me," retorted Pierre.

"At heart you're a dishonest man, pure and simple — that's why you've got this aversion to figures and facts, because they'd convict you!"

With a cry of rage Pierre flung himself upon Maurice, seized him by the throat and pressed him against the wall.

"Stop it!" shouted Raoul, catching at Pierre's arm from behind and trying to pull him away. But to his surprise he found that Pierre was enormously strong and would not so easily let go.

"Let him go!" He drew the little pistol which Pierre had given him, and held it to Pierre's head. "I shall count to three. One..."

Pierre's reaction was lightning fast. He let go of Maurice and struck the weapon from Raoul's hand in a single movement which left the Vicomte staggering sideways. For a moment the three men stared at each other, Pierre beside himself with fury, the other two shocked and full of fear.

Then Pierre seemed to awaken from his rage. He went pale and trembled suddenly, then staggered a few steps back and sank to his knees. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"What was the meaning of that?" demanded Raoul, now furious in his turn.

"I'm sorry..." repeated Pierre, and seemed suddenly completely helpless.

"The man's a dangerous lunatic!" gasped out Maurice, who was slowly recovering. "You ought to get rid of him at once!"

"Yes... right now I think so too..." said Raoul thoughtfully, with a severe look at Pierre, who still knelt huddled on the floor. "Dubois, you may go. I'll deal with this."

Dubois left — not without throwing a scornful glance at Pierre, to which the latter paid no heed.

 _(continued...)_


	10. Discord before Christmas (cont)

**Discord before Christmas** (cont.)

Raoul took a seat, gazing down at Pierre. "Monsieur Bertrand," he began sternly, "just what was all that about?"

Pierre remained motionless in his kneeling position on the floor, huddled together in such a way that Raoul could not see his face.

"Answer me!"

"I'm so sorry," Pierre said again, like a small child who only knows one phrase.

"So you have already said," Raoul observed drily. "I asked you just what you thought you were up to."

Pierre gave a helpless shrug, and answered quietly, "I lost control. I'm sorry — I have an unforgivable temper. When Dubois called me a liar I saw red."

"And what do you suppose is going to happen in the future? You're running around here with guns and fierce dogs — right now I have to concur with Dubois, you're a danger to our safety in yourself. I have to take care not only for my family but for my staff, for whose welfare I'm responsible. In my place what would you do?"

"I hate that question," retorted Pierre. "Every time I feel obliged to give you an honest answer. Shoot me down like a mad dog: here and now I'm not sure that it wouldn't be for the best."

"I'm no murderer, Monsieur Bertrand, and sometimes you carry your self-hatred too far," returned Raoul, somewhat more softly. "I want an honest answer. Can you guarantee me that in the future you will keep control of yourself?"

Pierre shook his head. "Unfortunately not."

Words poured out of him suddenly. "I really tried to control myself. In particular I didn't want a quarrel with Dubois, he keeps the books well, but I simply can't stand men of his type. The world only exists for them as figures on paper. D—- it all, I've already been involved in a feud of sorts, and that came out badly for both of us. I swore then that I'd never get involved in anything of the kind again, and now... I'm an old fool who has apparently learnt nothing at all from his mistakes."

"With all due respect to your self-analysis — don't you think this time you've finally gone too far?"

"Yes, of course." Pierre sighed in despair. "Long since. I would not have stood by and watched these antics of mine as long as you have. But sir, I beg you, even though I don't deserve it — give me one more chance."

"Only because you saved my life," answered the Vicomte. "And only under the condition that you humbly beg Dubois' pardon and leave him alone from now on. And no cheating — I'll be asking him later. You started the fight, and now it's up to you to do everything you can to make it up with him."

"And what if he doesn't want to?" enquired Pierre sceptically.

"Then I want to see at least that you're making the attempt. And one more thing — stop making plans with Babette to get married on the 31st of February. At your age it's just embarrassing."

Pierre stood up slowly. "Thank you, sir," he said simply. "You're the very first man ever to give me not just one chance but a second, third and still more, even though I always let you down. Only take care that your generosity doesn't get exploited."

~o~

The very next day there came an unwelcome visit. Two men from the tax authorities arrived in order to complain to the Vicomte that the estate's taxes for the year hadn't been paid.

"That can't be true," Raoul exclaimed, and went with them to find Dubois, who as usual was seated behind piles of ledgers and documents.

"Monsieur Dubois, these two gentlemen claim that we've forgotten to pay our taxes," said the Vicomte, and Dubois went pale.

"What's wrong?" Raoul was beginning to worry that maybe they really hadn't been paid.

"I had the cheque all ready prepared..." Dubois began to leaf through various of his books.

"Yes, and I signed it. And then what happened?"

"I'm not sure..." stammered Dubois, flicking ever more feverishly through the pages.

At that moment the door opened and Pierre came to see what was going on.

"You? That's all I needed," groaned Dubois. "Let me search in peace!"

"I'm saying nothing," remarked Pierre, and seated himself motionless on a stool in the corner where he could watch all that went on.

Suddenly a piece of paper slid out of a book and fell to the floor. Dubois scooped it up and handed it to the Vicomte. "There's the cheque you signed. I must have forgotten to send it in."

The Vicomte passed the cheque over to the two officials. "You see, it was nothing but an oversight. I deeply regret it and offer you my most formal apologies."

The officials accepted the cheque and considered a moment. Then one said: "I believe you when you say that it was not intentional, as up to now everything has always been in order. But since you've paid late, you'll receive a fine; I'll put in a good word for you, but be prepared to get fined."

Once they had gone, the Vicomte rounded on Dubois. "How could that happen? This isn't a matter of some small bill that could get overlooked. If those gentlemen hadn't been so understanding about it, they would have accused me of tax evasion, and in addition there's a fine coming our way; how do you explain that?"

Pierre, who was still sitting in the corner listening, grinned. Finally, for once, he wasn't the one responsible for the trouble.

"Forgive me, Monsieur de Chagny." Dubois was trembling. "Truly, I had everything prepared and meant to hand in the cheque, but... then I fell out with my son. You know, my son whom you so generously took on as an apprentice accountant. He... he told me that he doesn't want to become a accountant, but to run away and become a soldier, preferably in the Foreign Legion even though he's French by birth. I was in such a state that I must have entirely forgotten about the cheque."

Pierre broke in. "Perhaps I can help."

"You? You want to help me?" asked Dubois with disbelief.

"Let me talk to your son," answered Pierre, emphasising his friendly tone, "and I'll wager you that after that he'll be eager to become an accountant and never mention the Foreign Legion again."

"It's because of you that he first got hold of this nonsense," Dubois accused him. "Before that he was always a good lad, but he admires you: he wants to have adventures like you, and flout all law and morality — just like you!"

"Just let me talk to him. Please."

~o~

The young man was very excited that the old officer wanted to speak with him. Pierre had offered his own room for the discussion to take place; since neither the Vicomte nor Dubois trusted him an inch in this matter, they had insisted on being present. Thus Maurice and Raoul sat at the table, and Pierre and the young man on the settee.

"So you want to be a soldier, boy?" Pierre began in a friendly way.

"Yes sir, I do."

Pierre felt in his pocket, drew out a hip-flask, took a swig and offered the flask to the youngster, who took a cautious swig of his own. Tears instantly sprang to his eyes, and he had to cough.

"You'll get used to it," said Pierre, and screwed the flask shut.

The young man was still coughing. Pierre lit up a cigarette. "Why do you want to join the Foreign Legion?"

"I want to see distant lands and have adventures."

Pierre nodded in understanding. "I've seen the world and travelled to far countries. Let me tell you, my boy, the world holds only one colour for me, and that's blood-red. One battlefield looks like any other and one heap of corpses stinks like any other... whereas here I see a beautiful garden, peaceful vineyards and green forest."

The young man stared at him for a moment, taken aback, then said defiantly: "I want to serve my country bravely and honourably."

"Oh yes?" responded Pierre derisively. "And what do you know of courage and honour? You haven't the faintest idea."

He stood up and took off his coat. Then he started to unbutton his shirt.

"First of all they take you captive," he began. "They submit you to public degradation in front of everyone; they brand you so that anyone you meet knows at once what they have done to you. They brand you like cattle to show everyone that you belong to them. They beat you and torture you until you will do anything they demand, destroy you and drag you through the mire. You forget your own name and think of yourself by the name they give you. You forget who you are and become whatever they order you to be. And if you are among the few who escape alive, you crawl out of there and struggle back into existence."

Pierre let his shirt fall and bent over the young man in such a way that the latter could see his bared torso. The boy's eyes widened in horror when he saw the scars. Apart from the fresh scar of the shoulder wound, Pierre bore three more bullet marks on his chest, and knife wounds on both arms as well as down his right side.

He turned so that the young man could see his back also. A terrible burn ran down from his left shoulder to the waist of his trousers, and seemed to continue lower. Pierre's back was marked with great weals where he had been beaten. High on his left arm he carried an arrowhead scar like a brand, and at his wrists and neck deep scars could be seen where ropes had bound him.

The young man was ashen. Pierre put on his shirt again and buttoned it quietly.

"Let's suppose that you survive," he went on. "Then you're sent back into battle. And then comes the day of revenge. Oh, not revenge upon those who did this to you, probably not even upon those of the same race. Some day when you're in a village where rebels are hiding, something or other will remind you of one of your torturers and you'll make them pay for everything that was done to you. You'll sink into an intoxication that is better than sharing a woman's bed, better than wine, better than any drug; you will be the master of life and death. Men will be playthings in your hands, so infinitely far above them will you be and they so infinitely far beneath you.

"And then you wake, and find that you are standing up to your knees in blood and that what you have done to the innocent is ten times worse than what was done to you. You realise that you have become exactly what you so much hated, what you wanted to wipe off the face of the earth. And then — then, my boy, you can speak to me of courage, for you will need it if you are not to put an end to yourself upon the spot."

The boy's face had gone green and he said not a word more. He stared at the old man in horror, then jumped to his feet and ran. Pierre stood there, face turned to the wall, against which he was bracing himself with both hands.

Raoul and Maurice were silent. They had heard everything and seen the scars on Pierre's body. There was nothing they could say.

This lasted until Pierre had himself far enough under control to turn round. He lit himself a cigarette and went up to Maurice. "He won't want to be a soldier any more."

"No, I don't think so," answered Maurice.

Pierre smoked his cigarette, then took a swig from his flask and lit up another. Finally he sat down on his bed and looked at Maurice, who was still very quiet. "May I take it that this humiliation has served to repay my offences against you?"

"Entirely, Monsieur Bertrand," Maurice answered, and stretched out his hand.

Pierre took it in a surprisingly gentle grasp and turned to the Vicomte. "I trust that by this penance I have also satisfied your sense of justice?"

Raoul simply nodded. He could not speak. Too many emotions which he himself could not understand had hold of him: on the one hand horror at what Pierre had recounted, on the other a deep pity for the man whose scars spoke all too clearly. Not for a moment did he doubt that Pierre had confessed his own life history and that every word had been pure truth. No-one could know such things who had not himself experienced them.

"You've knocked the nonsense out of my son and doubtless saved his life," said Maurice. "For that I am deeply in your debt."

Pierre looked at him with a wry grin. "And all without a single fact or figure."


	11. Christmas as it should not be

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

Here is a recent illustration by the author on deviantArt, showing Pierre Bertrand with Othello and the dog Charybdis: h+t+t+p+:+/+/+erik1881+.+deviantart+.+c+o+m+/+art+/+gutter-curs-590470492

* * *

 **Christmas as it should not be**

Christine was absolutely set on arranging a wonderful Christmas for Marie. Unfortunately, she was the only one. Raoul was tensed up over the recent events, and his tension communicated itself to the others who were spending Christmas in the chateau.

Babette and Pierre fell out and made up with each other so often and in such quick succession that they themselves lost track of whether their engagement was currently on or off or on again. And since there was a great deal of preparation to be done for the two Christmas celebrations — above and below stairs — Babette had no patience to spare with Pierre's cynical remarks, and turned both him and his dogs out of the kitchen.

Pierre had been thoroughly irritable since receiving a parcel for Christmas that was once again addressed to P.F.E. Bertrand. His first reaction had been one of fury, after which he had accepted the parcel and hidden it somewhere in his room. Dr Martin and his wife were at loggerheads, because Madame Martin would have liked nothing better than a fairytale Christmas and the doctor preferred to devote his time to bringing his practice up to date.

The festivities were arranged such that Raoul, Christine and Marie were to celebrate theirs with Dr Martin, his wife and daughters, and Pierre Bertrand. The nursemaid, Yvonne, would also be present. Everyone else would join in the servants' celebration.

The first thing to happen was a row between Pierre and Babette outside the door. "Go off and party with the aristocracy, then, why don't you — I'm only the cook here and I suppose you're something better!" accused Babette.

"What rubbish, I'm just following orders. What sort of gossip do you think we're going to get lumbered with if we spend the party together?"

"That's right, hide behind your Vicomte's orders. Enjoy yourself among all the fine company!" She swept off in a huff, and Pierre came into the room, clearly embarrassed that everyone had overheard.

To start off with, presents were exchanged. Dr Martin's two daughters got dolls with pretty clothes to dress them in and began at once to quarrel over a particular doll-bonnet, and Madame Martin had her hands full trying to calm them down. Christine was looking after Marie, who got far more presents than anybody else, even though at her age she couldn't grasp the meaning of them. Even Pierre had a present for Marie: a mobile with little bells on it, with which she was enchanted because it made noises. The nursemaid steeled herself for a broken night if the baby were to be allowed to keep the bells.

Raoul had a new doctor's bag for Dr Martin along with its contents, with which the doctor was so delighted that he failed to notice anything else — in particular his wife and her present, a scarf that she had knitted for him herself. Madame Martin sent a severe look backwards and forwards from her husband to her children; she would have words with them when they were alone.

Raoul and Christine had both sought out presents for each other with great care. Christine got a silk scarf that was an exact replica of the one that Raoul had fished out of the water at their first meeting, and for Raoul she had commissioned a watch with a miniature of Marie painted inside the case.

For Pierre they had jointly found a little pocket-watch which showed the date as well as the time. This year Pierre had clearly prepared better for a present in return, for he gave the Vicomtesse a golden chain on which hung a simple gold cross.

"It belonged to my mother," he explained. "I have no daughter to whom I could pass it on — but you have one, and therefore it's yours."

Christine protested that she could not accept it, but since Pierre insisted she took it all the same.

When it was tea-time Madame Martin had the greatest of trouble to get her children and husband to stay at the table and not to disappear off immediately with their presents. Marie did not want to eat her pap, and spat it straight out again until she, the nursemaid, and her high-chair were covered with it.

Halfway through the main course Christine sprang suddenly to her feet, tried to make it out of the room, failed, and had to throw up in the middle of the floor. Dr Martin and Raoul rushed to her assistance and got her to her bedroom, where the doctor examined her carefully while Raoul went back to the others. In the corridor he saw Pierre presenting Babette with her gift: a sturdy cast-iron frying-pan. Babette cast herself upon Pierre's neck — or, rather, upon his chest, since the height difference between them meant that she didn't even reach to his shoulder.

Raoul took his daughter in his lap and attempted with moderate success to feed her. Finally he managed to induce her to eat peas from his plate, to which she helped herself with small but dextrous fingers. At that moment she filled her nappy and, since she couldn't sit still, bestowed a certain amount upon Raoul's trousers. He gave her back to the nursemaid so that the latter could wash and change her. Then Yvonne took the baby off to bed and Raoul poured himself some wine.

Madame Martin made her excuses, and took the two little girls, still squabbling over the bonnet, with her. Raoul gazed at the wine and decided that after all the upset he deserved another glass.

When he was about halfway down the second bottle, Pierre came back. He no longer seemed sober either, and was about to apologise to Raoul for having made him wait so long when he noticed that the Vicomte was in a sad way.

~o~

Dr Martin had in the meantime found out the cause of Christine's sudden nausea, and delivered his diagnosis of heartiest congratulations. After a few hours the sickness had abated, and she went in search of her husband.

The servants' celebrations had by this time more or less broken up, save for the kitchen and scullery maids who were putting away the dishes. Babette was sitting on the stairs with a bottle of wine in one hand and her new frying pan in the other. When she caught sight of Christine, she called over to her joyfully: "He does love me! He's given me a frying pan to beat off bothersome men with, after I told him about how I knocked down the blacksmith with one when I was a girl."

She smiled happily and bestowed a loving kiss on the pan. Christine wondered whether Pierre might not yet find happiness after all. She hoped the old man could have some happy years ahead of him.

From Babette, who was still fondling the frying pan tenderly, she learned that Pierre had taken the Vicomte into the guest wing, which was unoccupied save for Pierre's room. She set off to find her husband.

The door of the first room was standing open, and she could hear noises from inside. An unpleasant aroma struck her as she entered, and she saw Raoul's jacket lying on the floor. The sounds were coming from the bathroom.

Opening the door carefully a crack, she saw Raoul sitting on the floor in front of the toilet bowl, leaning back against Pierre, who was standing behind him. "I can't take it any more," Raoul groaned, and Pierre soothed him: "It's almost over."

Raoul made a gurgling noise, and Pierre grabbed him by the collar and held his head over the bowl. When he had finished, Pierre drew him back again, leant him against his knees and caught up a towel and a flask of water. "Drink," he commanded.

"I feel sick," Raoul sobbed out, turning his head away, "and it just keeps coming back up, and I don't want to any more..."

"It's all right, never mind. Now be a good lad and take another sip... Babette! Curse you, Babette, where have you got to?" Pierre shouted furiously. "I'll murder that female. Babette!"

"I'm afraid you can't count on her coming," Christine said softly.

"Madame?" Pierre, astonished, stared at her.

"Christine... don't tell her... she musn't know," begged Raoul.

"It's all right, this will stay between the two of us," Pierre promised him as Raoul was overcome by a fresh fit of retching. "Please go, Madame."

He turned to Christine with a pleading look. "Please. I'll see to this. But, if you would, open the window."

Christine nodded and opened the window, then left. She wanted to respect Raoul's wish for her not to see him in this condition and was grateful to Pierre for taking care of her husband. All the same, when she lay in bed alone she did not feel at ease.

* * *

Raoul awoke the next morning in a room of which he had no recollection at all. Light fell through a small chink in the curtains, and the fire was lit.

"Feeling better?" enquired Pierre hoarsely. Raoul looked around in confusion and found him sitting in an armchair by the window.

Pierre stood up with an effort and stretched, then came to Raoul's bedside. He seemed suddenly very old and grey, but more than anything else worn out.

Raoul sat up, and struggled against abrupt giddiness and pain that shot through his head. His insides were burning as if he had been drinking fire and there was a foul sour taste in his mouth.

He blinked, then saw the cup in front of his nose. "Drink," ordered Pierre. It was an order that Raoul dimly remembered having heard again and again the previous night.

"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.

"Tea made from ginger, camomile, caraway, fennel and peppermint, with honey. It's good against sickness," explained Pierre. "Now get it down. And then have some soup."

"Soup for breakfast?"

Pierre sat down on the edge of Raoul's bed and surveyed him calmly. "Take it from me, I know what you need right now."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Raoul.

"I was young once too... and compared to my excesses, yesterday was nothing at all. In those days I had a friend who came to my aid, but I never had the chance to repay him. I think he would be glad to see me do the same for you. It's much better than waking up somewhere or other the next morning in a puddle of vomit and urine and having to crawl back home — that's a disgrace from which one doesn't soon recover."

Raoul felt suddenly hot and broke out in sweat. "Who knows about this?" he asked, horrified.

"I do," Pierre replied, "and Dr Martin, who is bound by his physician's oath of confidence. Otherwise, nobody. And incidentally — ginger tea is sovereign against morning sickness."

"What?" The Vicomte failed to follow.

"Congratulations are due," growled out Pierre. "Dr Martin told you last night, but I don't suppose you remember."

He stood up and stretched again, trying to loosen the painful muscles in his back. "I'm too old to spend the night in a chair," he said with a sigh. "Will you be all right on your own now? I'm going to get some sleep."

Raoul nodded, and Pierre left the room.

Looking about him, Raoul saw that someone had put out a fresh suit of clothes for him. After washing face and body with cold water, he dressed and went in search of Christine. She was sitting in the music room, singing to Marie, who watched with wide eyes. The little girl was chewing on the hand of her doll and dribbling on her dress.

When Christine caught sight of Raoul, she broke off at once — despite Marie's protest of "Mama lala, Mama lala!" — and beamed at him. "Good morning, darling. Just imagine, we have the most wonderful news: Marie is going to have a little brother or sister."

"Li-bro-sih, li-bro-sih," echoed Marie, and laughed. Then she demanded firmly: "Mama lala!"

~o~

Lunch was somewhat basic, since it had not been cooked by Babette but one of the kitchenmaids. Madame Martin apologised for the misbehaviour of her daughters, and Dr Martin presented Pierre's apologies: he had severe backache and could not sit down.

"I tried to help him," began Dr Martin. "It's the muscles. He's tenser than anyone I've ever seen. They're so taut that sometimes one can't tell what's bone and what's muscle."

Raoul stared shamefaced down at his plate. He had a shrewd idea where Pierre's back pains had come from. But he said nothing.

* * *

After Christmas Day, the sort of crazy normality to which they had all become accustomed returned.

Raoul sought out Pierre in order to thank him. Pierre had saved him from damaging his reputation, and a damaged reputation was not easy to mend. They sat together in Raoul's study, drank tea and chatted on inconsequential subjects until Raoul could finally get out his thanks.

"I swore to do everything I could to protect Marie," said Pierre. "That also includes looking after you and your wife — and, if you will permit it, the children we hope are yet to come."

"You're a strange man, Monsieur Bertrand. Whenever it's quiet, you stir up trouble; but when troubles come, then you're the first to help."

Pierre said nothing. He did not know what to say.

Finally he sighed. "I'm just a stray dog who's trying to turn himself into a family pet."


	12. Mistrust

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Mistrust**

Pierre appeared to have acquired a penfriend. For whatever reason, he received regular letters and sometimes even a parcel, and wrote dutifully back. The letters were always addressed to P.F.E. Bertrand, and his answers went to an anonymous numbered P.O. Box in Paris. This attracted attention — the Vicomte in particular thought it curious — but no-one said anything to him about it.

When it was the season for balls, Christine insisted that they should hold one.

"But not a masked ball: every kind of disguise is forbidden, otherwise we might as well send Erik an invitation," she warned, and set about putting together a guest list. Dubois, who kept a list of the names and addresses of everyone of birth and rank in a meticulous card index, assisted her in the task.

"Have we forgotten anyone?" she asked Dubois, and Pierre — who yet again felt the need to interfere — put in: "The chief of police, his deputy and the latter's assistant."

"Why do we have to invite them?" asked Raoul, astonished. He had taken Marie onto his knee and was playing with her.

"One never knows when a favour from the police — a sympathetic report or a friendly atmosphere for an interrogation of witnesses — might not come in handy. At the very least you ought to be inviting them so that you can find out what kind of little favours you can do for them."

"I do hope Marie didn't hear that," sighed the Vicomte. "Were you just instructing me on how to corrupt the police?"

"Of course not. Nobody's talking about corruption — only about establishing good relations and making pleasantries. You've already contrived excellently where the President of the Court is concerned, but that's not enough; it's the police who are first on the scene, and anything that goes wrong at that point is hard to put right later, even before the most generous of judges."

"How have I contrived?" asked Raoul, taken completely aback.

"The President of the Court, to whom you leased out hunting rights at a bargain price?" prompted Pierre.

"That was him? That friendly old gentleman who was so delighted at an invitation to the hunt?"

"You mean you didn't know?" Pierre was amused. "And here I thought it was all a deep-laid plan..."

This was the last straw for Dubois. "Can't you do anything without devious motives? And just when I was beginning to take you for a decent human being!"

He went off to deal with the invitations. The glance he cast at Pierre in passing made it clear that he would have preferred to spit in his face. Pierre ground his teeth and tried to pretend he had not noticed.

"You know our problem," he said defensively. "We've already had one corpse in the Chateau — next time we need to be better prepared."

"Next time?" asked Christine, horrified.

Pierre relented. "I too hope there won't be any next time, but one can never be too careful. And in such a case I'd prefer the police report to read self-defence, rather than murder. If the attacker is the only one to get hurt, self-defence is not so easy to prove."

"Lala," demanded Marie at that moment.

"There, there, Marie, Mama will sing for you," said Christine, who was delighted by Marie's fondness for music.

"No, Er lala, Er lala."

By Er she meant Pierre. Marie abbreviated most names to their final syllable: from Babette she made Et, from Yvonne, the nursemaid, On, and Pierre was simply Er.

"Well, what do you want to play?" asked Pierre.

"No lala, lala! Lala, no lala!" insisted Marie tearfully.

Raoul held her on his knee and tried to soothe her. "He'll play with you right away."

"I think that's not what she means," Christine explained. "Lala with the stress on the first syllable means playing, on the second syllable... means singing."

They all turned and stared at Pierre.

"But I can't sing," said Pierre with a shrug. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Christine shook it off. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tense, that's all. It's probably my condition — I'm so afraid something will happen to the baby. My worry's playing tricks on me."

Pierre excused himself and left the room. Marie began to cry, and was only comforted when Christine sang her a nursery rhyme.

* * *

The planning for the ball was extremely complex. Pierre would have preferred to lock the guests into the chateau but Raoul insisted that it was the dogs who should be locked away into the gatehouse. "If you're that worried, put on a tailcoat and come to the ball — then you'll be on the spot near us."

"Out of the question. I don't belong there. I'll be in the kitchen, where servants should be."

The Vicomte was stung. "You're more a family friend than a servant. And if you promise to behave yourself, then I see no problem."

"I do," retorted Pierre: "I can't do it."

Raoul noticed suddenly that Pierre appeared nervous. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

Pierre bit his lip and said nothing.

Raoul gave in. "I won't force you to do it. But what are you afraid of?"

"I don't generally feel comfortable in fine society. The rules of the game there are something that I simply don't understand."

~o~

The ball turned out to be an excellent idea. Christine relaxed visibly during the preparations; the more people and the more bustle of activity she had about her, the less she was afraid of Erik.

It proved a shining success. Compared to Parisian balls it might have been a flat and dull affair, but it was a glittering highlight among provincial entertainments.

On the day before the ball Raoul went down to the kitchen in order to discuss the menu with Babette. Properly speaking, this was a task for the lady of the house — but just then the latter couldn't stand to hear so much as a word spoken about food; she was feeling queasy again.

The kitchen door stood open a crack, and Raoul could see Pierre sitting astride a chair with his arms propped across the back and his head on his arms. The three dogs lay beside him. Raoul saw them only from behind, for all four — and at that moment the Vicomte really did get the impression of four great grey shaggy dogs — were looking towards the dresser, where Babette was standing and working on something that was out of his field of view.

"You're going to have to tell them some time," said Babette, and Raoul froze. He was not at all in the habit of eavesdropping, but he could at least wait a moment before he went in.

"I know," said Pierre with a sigh. Scraps of meat flew towards the dogs, who snapped them up skilfully, and Raoul half expected another one to be tossed in Pierre's direction.

"This can't go on," insisted Babette.

"Why not? It's working out, one way or another."

"It is not. Every time post arrives for you, you break out into a sweat. You've managed to checkmate yourself this time — how does it feel to be terrified every time the postman calls?"

Pierre growled; really growled, like a dog.

"If you say nothing, you're playing into his hands," the cook warned. Judging by the sound, she had begun to chop the herbs.

"I've got three choices," Pierre admitted in resignation. "I can kill him — but the last time, I simply couldn't bring myself to do it..."

"Which I'm glad to hear," broke in Babette severely.

"...or I can go on like this. Or I can empty the safe, grab a horse and make a run for it."

"So what's stopping you?"

"I can't. The thought of never seeing Marie again... it's unbearable."

Raoul held his breath. He had never imagined Pierre capable of robbing him, yet Pierre had apparently given serious thought to it. On the other hand he had dismissed the idea again...

"How does it feel to be on the receiving end?" enquired Babette.

Pierre was shaking. "Like hell. He's enjoying it, I know that much."

"Then do something — speak up!"

"I can't!" cried Pierre, and for a while both were silent. Nothing could be heard save the scraping of the knife.

"Saying nothing is also a form of lying," Babette reminded him.

"Don't you preach morality to me," Pierre flung back at her. "Do you even know who the fathers of your children are?"

He ducked adroitly beneath a kitchen knife that stuck in the wall behind him. "You'll never make a knife-thrower," he spat, and the three dogs made off for another corner of the kitchen as he stood up and disappeared from Raoul's view. "Better stick to the frying pan."

"You'll get it over your head in a minute!"

"Oh yes?"

"Yesmmmpf..."

Raoul decided to make his presence known and went into the kitchen. He was greeted at once by the joyous barking of the dogs, and Pierre and Babette sprang apart from one another as if they had been burnt.

"I didn't mean to interrupt..." said the Vicomte, rather embarrassed, as he saw Babette go red and Pierre, breathing hard, turn away towards the wall. Pierre passed both hands up over his face, then turned to Raoul.

"What did you hear?" His voice sounded almost shrill.

"That you are being blackmailed and had thought of robbing me on that account," answered the Vicomte sternly.

"Oh, God," groaned Pierre and clung to one of the cupboards for support. "Monsieur, please believe me — I would never do that. It's true that in my desperation I've thought about it, but... You heard it for yourself: I would never do that."

"But only on account of Marie," pointed out Raoul.

Pierre shifted in embarrassment from one foot to the other and stared at the ground.

"Well? Do I get an answer?" said Raoul, and Pierre began, stammering: "If... if... but it's not... perhaps... I... Confound you, Babette, say something!"

"Me? You made this bed for yourself, my dear, now lie in it on your own!" Babette told him firmly, as if Pierre were a naughty child and Raoul the strict teacher.

"All right, I thought about it. But I won't do it," insisted Pierre. "I won't do anything to hurt you or your family."

The Vicomte considered for a while. "The question isn't closed, but it can keep until after the ball. Babette, what are the plans for the menu?"

~o~

The ball took place as planned, and — to the Vicomte's great surprise — nothing untoward happened, and he was finally able to enjoy a couple of carefree hours with his wife.

The following day, he summoned Pierre to his study and put him to the question. Pierre stood hunched up with his head hanging down. The Vicomte sat in the armchair behind his desk.

"So, Monsieur Bertrand, what have you to say?" Raoul began.

Pierre muttered something into his beard.

"I beg your pardon?" said Raoul, and Pierre shook his head.

"Don't make things so difficult!" said Raoul, annoyed. "We both know I heard part of your conversation with Babette; I know that you're being blackmailed, and furthermore that you've considered doing away with your blackmailer or robbing me and making off with the money."

Pierre nodded and clenched his hands into fists.

"I have to know if this constitutes a risk to our security." Raoul laid particular stress on the phrase "risk to our security", one of Pierre's favourite expressions.

"No," said Pierre definitely. "No risk at all."

"You're being blackmailed — that's a risk."

"But only to me, sir, not to you."

"Then talk about it, Monsieur Bertrand; speak up and let's hear the truth. Otherwise I have no way to know what is going on and shall have to report the matter to the police so that they can find out what the issue is."

"Please, not the police," begged Pierre.

"Sit down and stop fidgeting!" said the Vicomte, more harshly then he had intended. Pierre took a seat and said nothing, biting at his fingernails. He somehow gave the impression of a small schoolboy confessing that he had forgotten his homework.

"Now, who is blackmailing you?" Raoul began the interrogation.

"The same man I had to go and meet," said Pierre evasively.

Raoul cast his eyes up to the heavens. "Don't make this so difficult — who is this man, and how is he blackmailing you? What is he after?"

"Do you want the whole story, then?"

"If you please."

Pierre sighed. "Very well. He is the same man whom I recently had to go and meet."

"The one whose son you killed?"

"The same. He... he has evidence against me in his possession, and if he takes it to the right people then I am as good as dead. He tracked me down; how he found me here I have no idea, but he wanted us to meet. I went to the meeting determined simply to shoot him. But I just couldn't do it. I had him in my sights, but I couldn't do it. That's never happened to me before — to be simply unable to kill.

"So I had a talk with him, as he wanted. In return for his silence he wanted me to give him the key, and I submitted. As I couldn't kill him, I had no choice."

"What key?" asked the Vicomte.

"I have a cellar in Paris where things of mine are stored. Now he has practically all my personal possessions. The parcel he sent me contained belongings of mine."

"What more can he ask for, if you have already handed over everything?"

"It was never about money," responded Pierre. "Never. He demands that I answer his questions. He sends them to me, I write down my answers and send them back. Then sooner or later the next questions come and I have to reply. It's like a cross-examination, but one carried out through the post."

Raoul reflected, then observed: "The more you tell him, the more entangled you become — had you considered that?"

Pierre sighed. "He doesn't ask questions which would force me to incriminate myself. I think he just wants to let me know that he is still there, and that I'll never be rid of him so long as we both live."

Both fell silent, thinking it over. Raoul asked, finally, "Why did you kill his son?"

Pierre winced, clearly choosing his answer very carefully. "We were on the same side back then. His son was my friend. When he was... struck down... there was nothing more I could do to help, and yet I couldn't leave him to his fate. So I took his life to spare him from worse suffering. His father has never got over it. Since then he has always been at my heels. I think he simply wants to make sure that I can never forget what I have done."

"That's crazy," said Raoul. "On the other hand, if I think about Marie..."

He shuddered, then continued, "It's also quite understandable. Are you sure he won't do anything to you?"

"Absolutely. If he had wanted to, he would have killed me years ago."

They fell silent again. "And what do we do now?" asked Raoul.

Pierre sighed. "I wish I knew. There is simply nothing else I can do save submit to answering his stupid letters, however much I hate it. As long as he demands nothing more from me, I shan't be at risk."

"On that I don't agree," said Raoul firmly. "You've seriously considered robbing me."

Pierre winced. "Yes, I have. But I would never do it. I... sometimes I take cigarettes, wine or even cognac, but... certainly not money or valuables. Little things, most of which you've allowed me to have anyway. I would do anything to be able to stay here. Here, it's... peaceful."

He stressed the word 'peaceful' as if it were his idea of paradise.

"Peaceful?" Raoul stared at him in amazement. "Peaceful? You're here in order to keep an insane assailant away from us, and you find it peaceful?"

"Perhaps we simply have different standards of comparison," Pierre conceded.

"The fact remains that you have seriously considered robbing me. I take that very personally." The Vicomte grimaced. "You've forfeited my trust: how do you propose to solve that?"

"I... I didn't mean for you to hear about it," stammered Pierre, "I confessed it to Babette. You eavesdropped on us in secret."

"Don't you throw the blame on me! You seriously considered it. You would have robbed me and made a run for it. So how am I to trust you again?"

"I didn't DO it," retorted Pierre. "I thought about it, yes, and if I'd really wanted to do it I'd be long gone by now. The only thing that counts is what I actually DO — judge me on that."

This answer brought a grin from Raoul. "All right, you win. I'm prepared to act as if I'd never overheard your confession. But rest assured that from now on I'll be keeping a very sharp eye on you."


	13. A cleansing storm

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **A cleansing storm**

Spring came, and with it the flowers and fresh green on the trees. Christine began playing with Marie in the garden, not least because in the meantime Marie had learnt to walk (in so far as one can speak of 'walking' where a one-year-old is concerned...) During the day she felt safe.

Raoul rode to the stud with Pierre in order to discuss on the spot with the manager which mares should be covered by which stallions. As Pierre had a good eye for horse-breeding, Raoul often asked him for his opinion.

Gradually the Vicomte began to trust him again, especially as he noticed that Pierre was making a real effort to show himself worthy of being trusted. Pierre went to a great deal of trouble and it soon became apparent that the Vicomte could rely on his advice. He was seldom wrong, and where he had not a clue about a given subject — for example which vines would do well in which location — then he admitted that he understood nothing about it.

But in the midst of all this rural idyll Christine could not truly relax and enjoy herself. She was still afraid that Erik might attack at any time. "He is the Phantom of the Opera — and he has always struck when he was least expected. The more we remain on our guard, the safer we shall be."

"Darling," objected Raoul, "must we talk about this while we're having a picnic in the garden?"

Pierre, who was keeping Marie away from the flowers full of bustling bees, asked: "Don't you think, Madame, that after two years he has given up?"

Christine shook her head. "Never. Erik never gives up. Erik will never admit defeat."

"You're making up a spectre to terrify yourself. No-one has the powers you claim for Erik."

"And you're not taking the matter seriously, " Christine accused him.

"On the contrary, I'm taking it very much in earnest. But he is keeping so quiet that I'm seriously wondering whether he doesn't believe that he has already achieved his aim."

"I've asked myself that too," struck in Raoul. "We're prisoners in our own home, far from the opera, far from Paris. Don't forget, my darling, Erik doesn't know you love the life here. He is so self-centred that the idea would never occur to him that you might have wishes of your own, and that becoming prima donna of the Paris Opera was no dream of yours. If he thinks he has shattered your dreams by keeping you away from the Opera, perhaps for him that's enough?"

Marie grabbed a flower and tried to put it in her mouth, and Christine took it away from her. "That's not for eating. Here — eat a cake instead."

Marie took the cake and crumbled it. She threw the crumbs to the dogs, who ate them with enthusiasm. Her mother gave her another one, which she again tossed gleefully to the dogs.

"Oh Marie, don't feed the animals," Christine reproved her gently. Then she asked Pierre straight out: "And what about your pursuer? Would he give up?"

Pierre sighed. "No, but I've come to terms with the fact that he writes me letters, I send polite replies, and will probably have to do so for the rest of my life. Compared to your pursuer, mine is harmless — for he is an honest man."

At that moment Marie began to sing. At first Christine was delighted — then she grew ashen pale and sank senseless to the ground.

"Christine!" cried Raoul, horrified. He caught her up in his arms and carried her into the house while Pierre handed Marie over to the nursemaid and ran to summon Dr Martin.

When the doctor arrived, Christine had already recovered consciousness. "What's wrong?" asked Raoul anxiously. "Is it the baby?"

"No, the baby's all right." Christine was trembling. "It's that tune Marie was singing. She can't have learnt it from me, for I've never sung that song — but it's one I know. Erik used to sing it."

"Are you quite certain? Certain that it was that song, and not just a similar tune? Marie is only one year old: everything she sings sounds the same to me."

Christine shook her head. "No, I'm certain she has heard that tune. And it's not a song that's generally known and that she could have heard somewhere else — it's a song Erik composed for me."

"Madame should avoid any agitation," warned Dr Martin. "There is a danger of her losing the child."

"How am I to avoid agitation?" sobbed Christine. "Erik is here, and he's going to take a terrible revenge on me!"

Raoul went into the garden and stared around in desperation. What was to become of them? Would there forever be new fears, real or imagined? How were they to go on living like this?

"Shall we take a ride?" came Pierre's voice from behind him.

"Now? You want to go riding now? Now — now, of all times?"

Pierre nodded. "It will calm you down."

He rode in front and the Vicomte followed him. Neither spoke. Pierre led Raoul into a remote part of the woods, to a little clearing that had been created when an ancient tree had come down. There he dismounted and tied his horse to a branch of the fallen tree.

"What are we here for?" asked Raoul, puzzled.

"Please get down, sir, and I'll tie your horse."

Raoul dismounted.

Pierre took off his hat and laid his gun, his pistol and his leather bag down on the trunk. Then he took off his jacket and laid this, too, carefully down.

"What's all this?" asked Raoul, to whom this behaviour seemed, even for Pierre, more than a little peculiar.

"I need to show you something," said Pierre. "I'd hoped to be able to put it off for a little longer, but unfortunately today's... incident... has forced my hand. Take a look on the other side of the tree-trunk."

"There's a hole in the ground," said Raoul.

Pierre nodded. "And that's why you have nothing more to fear. That is Erik's grave."

Raoul took a closer look. "No," he objected, "it's empty."

"Yes," confirmed the old man, "it's empty — for now."

"You're frightening me," said Raoul numbly.

"Now then, that's the wrong attitude altogether," Pierre reproved him. "Never show weakness; it only encourages your opponent." Then he fell silent.

Raoul was becoming more and more disturbed. What was going on?

"Please try — whatever happens next — to stay calm," began Pierre. "There is no danger to you from Erik. There has been none for a long time. The Erik whom your wife fears never existed, as it were... and the Erik whom she knew has been dead for a year or more."

"That makes no sense," said the Vicomte, refusing adamantly to understand.

"I never told you my full name. My name — and for once this is the whole truth — is Pierre François Erik Bertrand."

"E... Erik?" stammered Raoul, and staggered back.

"My first name was always Pierre, but Erik is my actual name of use, according to the parish register."

"This... this can't be true," Raoul stammered. Erik made no reply, but took hold of his eyepatch and pulled it down. His hooked nose came off with the eyepatch, but not the grey beard, which was apparently real. As the beard reached from his Adam's apple up to his cheekbones, not much of his face could be seen, but the lack of nose gave it a most macabre appearance, made worse by the appalling scar and the half-remaining ear.

Then Erik opened both eyes. Where the eyepatch had formerly been, there was an completely healthy eye. Raoul stared at it. The left eye was golden brown, the colour of dark honey, but the right eye that had until now been hidden by the eyepatch had a hideous mottled grey-red iris. Christine had never mentioned that...

Raoul screamed and struck out. At that moment he was himself horribly afraid, and fear lent him strength. He smashed his fist into Erik's face. Erik reeled back and fell to his knees.

"You monster!" howled Raoul, and struck out with his riding crop. "You sick monster. How could you play such a trick on us? How could you worm your way into our lives? You lying bastard — you fiend!"

Only after several blows did he notice that Erik had curled up into a ball, shielding his head with his hands, but was making no attempt to put up a fight. His white shirt was torn, and there was blood on it where Raoul had struck him particularly hard. Raoul stared at his crop, appalled.

"What have you made of me?" he whispered in horror, and shrank back.

Erik rose slowly and looked calmly at Raoul.

"What next?" he asked almost cheerfully. "If you want to beat me to death, I'd suggest using one of these branches — it will take less time. Or you could shoot me, or cut my throat.."

Raoul heard the words, but they were without sense. "What do you mean?"

Erik smiled; the Vicomte had inadvertently addressed him as an equal. "Don't you want to kill me?"

"Yes... no... perhaps... but yes... I don't know!" stammered Raoul, hopelessly overwhelmed by the situation.

"Do you mind if I smoke while you consider the matter, sir?" Erik took the little cigarette case out of his shirt pocket with a gesture that was all too familiar to Raoul from Pierre.

"Not at all," answered the Vicomte absent-mindedly

"Have one?" Erik offered.

A minute or so later the two men were sitting side by side on the fallen trunk, smoking cigarettes. Anyone who had seen them would have taken them for old friends spending a fine spring day in the woods.

"My thanks for the brief respite," said Erik. "Now let's get this over with." He spoke as if it were a question of some job of work that between them they had to take care of.

"You owe me some answers," said Raoul. "And this time no lies and no half-truths!"

Erik grinned, which on him at that moment merely looked grotesque. "Why should I lie? I have nothing at all left to lose now. It's lucky you reminded me: if you strip my body, it will decay faster. In my jacket you'll find a notebook with detailed instructions on how to get rid of the corpse, a receipt for the sale of the dogs, and a letter giving in my notice. That should be enough to convince the police that I have simply gone away. Of course you could always oblige me to take off my clothes before you kill me, but I'd be grateful to you not to have to die lying naked in the mud."

The Vicomte stared at him, mouth ajar. "You're... you're assisting with your own murder?"

Erik laughed. A wholly wild, hysterical laugh. "I'm insane — didn't you know?"

He couldn't stop laughing. Nauseated, Raoul struck out again with the riding crop, which he was still clutching in his hand out of the simple need to cling onto something. It met Erik's shoulder, and he fell suddenly quiet.

"Forgive me." Erik's voice was strangely soft. "You wanted answers; I think I owe you some. Please — ask away."

When he put another cigarette in his mouth, Raoul saw a trickle of blood there. "Are you injured?"

"Only a tooth — and it's been loose a long time. That's what happens, at my age." Erik spat out a half-rotten tooth which had been knocked loose, and Raoul gulped and tried to hold back a sick feeling.

Erik took the hip-flask from his pocket and took a swallow, wiped the neck of the bottle on his shirt sleeve and offered it to Raoul. "Here, have some."

"Thanks," Raoul said automatically, and Erik's response held a wry note.

"The liquor's yours."

Raoul stared at him, then had to laugh. "You're impossible!"

Erik grinned likewise. "I know. You've told me often enough. Cigarette?"

"Also one of mine, I take it?"

"Naturally."

"You've got a twisted sense of humour — you know that?" Raoul sighed, trying to set his thoughts in order.

"If you'll forgive me, given that we're dealing here with the matter of my murder it's amazing that I still have a sense of humour at all."

"How did you track us down?" demanded Raoul, and Erik looked at him in surprise.

"I didn't. I can't track anyone. Oh, I may well threaten to hunt someone to the four corners of the earth and to be able to track them down wherever they go, but... sadly that's not actually one of my talents."

"You never followed us at all?" said Raoul, dumbfounded.

"No. Do you want to know what I actually did?"

"Of course."

"All right." Erik sent out a smoke-ring and dispersed it with one finger.

"As the Phantom of the Opera I played the role of a ghost. To make it credible I had to dig deep into my store of tricks and give the impression of being well-nigh omnipotent. And hence it never occurred to you or your wife to question my powers. I threatened her that I could track her down anywhere and she believed me. But in fact..." he admitted, shamefaced, "I drank myself unconscious. For around a month. I can't remember anything about that month. When I returned to my senses, I was lying in one of my own traps... foul from head to foot."

He raised a hand and indicated the scar across his scalp and the missing portion of his left ear. "I can only assume that I ran out of drink and went out to replenish my supplies. I was probably crawling on all fours, or else the falling blade would have killed me when I accidentally triggered the trap. Somehow I crawled back into my home and suffered the agonies of withdrawal."

"So Christine and I had a month's start?"

"I think so. Then I spent a month sunk deep in self-pity and did nothing whatsoever save bewail my own fate. Undignified, humiliating, shameful — but that's how it was."

"But then you tracked us down?"

Erik shrugged. "Yes and no. I wanted to, but I had no idea even how to begin such a hunt. What I did know was that the two of you would need some kind of support, since neither of you was in a position to survive alone on the street. From that I assumed that your brother was providing you with money, and thus you must have some form of contact with him. He was the key to finding you, and so... I made an approach to him."

"The attack was a set-up." Raoul drew the obvious conclusion.

Erik nodded. "I hired those two fools. I hoped the Comte would offer me some kind of position out of gratitude when I served him up my sob-story about the old soldier out of work. It didn't matter what — I'd have cleaned out the cesspit if only it got me into the house so that I could get at his correspondence."

Raoul shook himself and looked up. "How did you get the idea of passing yourself off as a soldier?"

Erik took a gulp from his hip-flask. "The old soldier is a mask I've been using for a long time. I got the idea from a labourer on one of my building sites — he was called Rene. He was disfigured and had scars from bullet-wounds and whippings all over his body. He was pretty much out of his mind, even by my standards. We swapped life stories in the course of a night's hard drinking and commiserated with one another. And thus the idea came to me that I could explain my disfigurement by suggesting that I had been a soldier. That's how the guise of the old soldier came to be created — and I have to say that it's always served me admirably. When you have to wear a mask for a long time, you know, it has to fit really well, and that one fitted like a glove."

"The dogs?" asked Raoul.

Erik laughed. "My plan turned out better than I had hoped. Your brother wanted me as a bodyguard for you. It was only then that I got the dogs, and I only really trained them here."

"Weren't you afraid that Christine would recognise you?"

"Naturally. Hence there was a Plan B: if she had recognised me then I should have shot first you and then Christine, and then as many more people as I could get before I myself was shot down."

Raoul shuddered, and began to tremble when he realised how narrowly they had escaped a catastrophe. "That's insane," he whispered, appalled.

Erik nodded, and continued in a conversational tone: "On that I agree entirely. My real plan, as you and Christine correctly guessed, was to drive you out of your minds with fear. I knew what terror can do to a man, and I wanted to suck you down into that same maelstrom in which I had already sunk. I wanted to bring the two of you to such a point that you would do away with yourselves."

"You all but succeeded," observed Raoul. "Why the change of heart?"

Erik laughed again — not a hysterical laugh, but a bitter, humourless one. "I never even began," he gasped between the gusts.

"What? Surely that can't be true!"

"Oh, but it is," jerked out Erik, unable to control his fit of laughing. "I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!"

The laughter turned into sobbing. "I'll never be able to compose enough Masses to express my gratitude that God granted me a last glimmer of conscience. Christine was carrying a child, and despite my rage I had enough sanity left to tell myself that I had no quarrel with this child; the child was not at fault, it should live. And thus I postponed the execution of my plans until after the birth."

"So when did you abandon your scheme?"

Erik was weeping now. "When you made me godfather to your daughter. I tried to talk you out of it... I warned you... but when I held Marie in my arms, I was lost utterly."

He hid his face in his hands. The tears fell and he could not stop them. "I no longer wished harm to you or Christine, I did all I could to take away your fears, but every time you had found some peace something would happen, and... it was as if I could not overcome the Phantom. Apparently my scheme was such a good one that I need do nothing at all; the plan would go into action all by itself, and I couldn't stop it. I saw how you suffered, and it tore me in two. You cannot imagine what it was like. I had set something under way that despite my endeavours I could no longer halt."

 _(continued..)_

* * *

Original author's note:

 _Erik has led everybody up the garden path — as I have led my readers. Or did you guess that Pierre and Erik were the same person? [ **Translator's note: actually, despite my most honourable efforts, I think everybody did...** ] _

_It struck me from reading Leroux's novel that actually Erik often bluffs. He acts more dangerous than he is. He makes great play of his reputation of being a monster, but he has also a playful, childlike side and he definitely shows signs of conscience. Sometimes Erik seems to me like a frightened child who creates an imaginary monster to protect himself from the world._


	14. A cleansing storm (cont)

**A cleansing storm** (cont.)

"Are you expecting me to pity you?" Raoul's voice was cold, and Erik shook his head and wiped the tears away.

"No, I'm wallowing in self-pity again — and you're right, it's no place of mine to do so and it's demeaning." He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself before continuing. "I could have stopped it if I had confessed the truth, but I didn't have the courage. It was cowardice: simple cowardice and selfishness. You were good to me, confoundedly good. I didn't want to like you, but there is simply something about you that... You're a good man, Monsieur de Chagny, and at some point I realised that somehow I was very fond of you."

Both men fell silent again. "And the organ?" prompted Raoul.

Erik sighed. "I had such a longing for music... I couldn't contain myself any longer. I came to bitterly regret it."

"And how much of all that rubbish you told us was true?"

Erik laughed again. "Believe it or not — most of it. I had only to leave out a few tiny details, and from that partial framework you built up an image for yourselves that was a false mosaic."

"What you told young Dubois — was that the truth, or a lie?"

"Most of it, alas, was true. But it was not as a soldier that I was made captive, but as a nine-year-old child. The torture and... the other"—Erik swallowed—"was unfortunately real. I was broken so often that I learnt to take on precisely the role that was required of me and play it to perfection. Sometimes I no longer know where I end and where the role begins that I'm currently playing. It's often hard for me to separate myself from my act, since I had really rather not be myself but someone else entirely. The Phantom of the Opera — poor unhappy Erik — the cynical soldier Pierre Bertrand — all of these are to one degree or another parts that I play. They are all in some way fragments of me, but I am never whole. I don't understand it myself."

"How long were you captive?" asked Raoul, who could feel nothing now but pity: not for the man before him but for the child that he had once been.

"Six years. But I wasn't tortured throughout — I should never have survived that."

"And the story of the massacre?"

"The truth, regrettably. I was in Persia. I was only meant to be working there as a magician and architect, but I became a figure of terror. There were rebels who had taken up arms against the regime, and I was responsible for their torture. The Shah had a little dispute with a certain Emir and I was part of his strategy... I had to convince superstitious men that I was a Djinn, an evil spirit who served the Shah. It lasted for... years. A bloodbath years long..." Erik choked and spat out blood. Then he took another swig from his flask.

Another silence fell.

"And the man who pursues you?" Raoul asked further.

"You know him as 'the Persian'. He is my friend, and yes, I killed his son, but he was not wounded but ill. But the story is otherwise true — including the part where he wants to turn me into a better man. As if it were not long since too late for that."

"Why didn't Christine recognize you?" Raoul simply couldn't get his head round how she could have failed to recognize Erik.

"You must know how very short-sighted she is. She recognises people chiefly by their voices. So I began to smoke like mad in order to alter mine." He shook his head and continued, "I knew that I was ruining my voice. I knew I would never in the future be able to reverse what I had done, but at that moment I didn't care. I didn't want a future. I wanted to die — but I wanted to drag the two of you with me into the abyss. My hate was so appalling that it consumed me utterly.

"I've reduced my smoking, but my voice will never fully recover. It suffices for singing simple songs to Marie, and I would still rank it alongside the leading performers of the Paris Opera, but I know what I have lost through my own folly. Never again shall I achieve perfection."

"What's wrong with your eye?" asked Raoul.

"It's always been like that. The left eye is perfectly normal, save that it appears yellow by sunlight. The right one is hideous, grey and red: I hate it. But I see very well, even in darkness. Christine... she told you that my eyes often couldn't be seen at all, didn't she? That's simply because she is so short-sighted, and in poor light almost blind."

Another uncomfortable silence fell.

"Would you mind if I put my jacket back on? I'm getting cold."

"Not at all," responded Raoul absent-mindedly. It was not until Erik had put on his jacket again that he realised that the other man had also regained his gun. That was less than reassuring.

"What do we do now?" asked Erik.

Raoul didn't know either. "I have no idea," he admitted. "In my place, what would you do?"

Erik stared at him dumbfounded. "Surely you're not seriously asking me that?"

Now it was Raoul who had to laugh. The question had come so naturally to his lips out of habit, as he had so often asked it of Pierre... who had actually been Erik all along.

"I don't see why it should be for ME to bear the responsibility on my own," he retorted. "This whole messed-up situation is YOUR fault. So you ought at least to come up with some ideas as to how we are to get out of it."

"So you don't mean to kill me," observed Erik.

"No. Unlike you, I'm no murderer."

"I have no Plan B. All this was... completely impromptu. What with Christine's breakdown today and Dr Martin's warning... I couldn't bear it any longer."

"And yet there was a grave here, and you had a notebook prepared," Raoul pointed out.

"Very observant of you," commended Erik, seeming almost proud of Raoul. "That was completed months ago. I had it prepared, but then... it was pure cowardice. I simply didn't have the courage."

"Do you still love Christine?"

"Yes," Erik said, and for the first time the two men looked each other directly in the eyes. "She will always be the love of my life."

"And mine," returned Raoul defiantly. "So what's all this with Babette?"

"Babette knows the score. She knows that I'll never love her like that... but then I know that I'm the twenty-seventh man in her life so far. I never wanted to get involved with Babette, but... the thing is, I never learnt how to say no when a woman wants to seduce me. I was never in that awkward situation before. And I find Babette's humour and zest for life quite simply refreshing.

"She knows as well who I really am. One can't really keep that sort of thing concealed in certain situations... you understand?"

"Who else knows?"

"Dr Martin," responded Erik promptly. "I admitted it to him when he took the bullet out of my shoulder, in case I died — when he was to tell you."

The two fell quiet again.

"You risked your life for mine," Raoul said finally. "Why?"

Erik sighed. "Let's call it 'déja vu'. In Persia I made friends with the Daroga, he invited me to his marvellous palace and I passed some of the best days of my life there. When it comes to happiness, I'll never again play more than a walk-on part; I can watch happiness in others, but for me nothing more is possible. When you made me godfather to your daughter, I told myself I could experience that happiness again by being able to partake in a little of yours. And Marie... Marie is such a wonderful child. I've often taken her from her bed at night in order to sing to her in the music room, so far as I still can. And she has seen my unmasked face, and never shown any fear or disgust. She loves me as only an innocent child can. I could never allow her to lose her father."

"Is there anything left in the bottle?" asked Raoul, and Erik handed him the hip-flask wordlessly.

Raoul took a hefty gulp. "It's empty now," he observed. "Have you any more cigarettes?"

Erik shook his head. "Sorry."

Raoul could think of no other means to play for time. "So where do we go from here?"

A sigh from Erik. "If you don't want to kill me... then I have no idea."

"You can't stay in the chateau — you understand that? I can't allow you near my family any longer."

"I understand," answered Erik, resigned. "But would you permit me to... to remain in the neighbourhood as a vagrant beggar? Having given the good Daroga the key to my dwelling under the Opera, I have nowhere else to go. Or would you have me arrested?"

"You can't stay here," insisted the Vicomte. Erik began to tremble, then he broke into tears. In view of the resignation the man had shown previously, Raoul had not expected such a violent reaction.

"No, please..." whispered Erik, "please just kill me."

"You'd rather die than leave?"

"I can't go on any longer." It was a sob. "I've been through this so often before and I just can't go on. Please — it would be more merciful to kill me now."

"Which means you're determined to stay," Raoul said angrily. "And how do you envisage that? Do we simply stroll into the chateau and have me say to Christine: 'It was a lovely ride, oh and by the way Pierre and Erik are one and the same, and now what's for supper?' No, that's not an option!"

Erik made a wry face. "Do we have to tell her? Couldn't we say that we did away with Erik today and buried him in the woods?"

"What?" Raoul's voice rose in fury. "No sooner do you learn that I'm not going to kill you than all you can think of is yet more lies? Lying, duping, deceiving — can you come up with nothing else at all? And there is no 'WE' in this business, is that clear? I said, IS... THAT... CLEAR?"

Erik flinched and ducked his head.

"Yes, of course. You're quite right," he admitted reluctantly, then added: "But... then what are we to do? Your wife mustn't be upset; how are we to break it to her gently who I am?"

"I have no idea — but we can't stay here sitting on this tree-trunk for ever, either."

Erik spat out blood again. Raoul looked at him and got a clear view of the blood that had soaked through his jacket. Already it was dripping from his left arm in particular. His grey beard too was full of blood that had run from the corner of his mouth.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, concerned now.

"No, just a tooth knocked out and a couple of bloody stripes. Nothing I haven't had before. You might have broken a rib or two with that kick."

"Did I kick you?" Raoul couldn't remember doing it.

"Yes, you did."

"Is it very painful?"

"Compared to what I've done to you — it's nothing at all."

Raoul considered. Was it true this time, or was Erik trying to manipulate him adroitly again? The man seemed absolutely determined not to leave. Raoul simply didn't know what he ought to do.

It was true for one thing that Erik had saved his life and had helped him when he had got blind drunk at Christmas. And — even if it was hard to admit right now — the Vicomte liked the man whom he had known as Pierre Bertrand. He wondered how much of the real Erik had gone into Pierre.

"Was it all just a sham? I looked on Pierre as... as a sort of friend. Were you just manipulating me?"

Erik shook his head. "What you valued in Pierre was real; that was me, so far as I myself can be sure. For me that's not easy — I constantly lie to myself as well."

This time it was Raoul who asked: "And what do we do now?"

"You mean, given that we're going round and round in circles?" said Erik with a touch of amusement. "There must be some way of breaking the news gently to your wife." He spat out more blood, then coughed.

"You need a doctor," said Raoul with decision. "I won't have you dying at my hand. Come on. I'll take you to Dr Martin, and after that we'll see."

Erik tried to mount his horse after replacing his eyepatch and nose, but managed it only after leading the animal up to the tree-trunk and then clambering from the latter onto the horse's back. They rode back to the chateau in silence.

Raoul rode in front, in the full knowledge that Erik was armed; but he was sure that Erik would not shoot him in the back.

As they came along the gravel drive to the chateau the door was suddenly flung open and Babette rushed to meet them, dissolving into tears. "He's still alive," she cried. "Thank God he's alive."

Erik slid carefully down from his horse. "What happened?" asked Babette, shocked at the sight of the blood.

"I fell off my horse."

"Off your horse? You? Pull the other one!"

Erik glanced at Raoul. Babette went to the Vicomte and said: "Thank you, Monsieur, for bringing him back to me. He gave me a letter before he rode away with you, saying that he must pay now with his life for what he had done and had finally found the courage to take responsibility for his deeds. I didn't think I would ever see him again alive. Thank you — thank you — thank you!"

"He needs a doctor," said Raoul in an attempt to deflect her. Together they took Erik to Dr Martin, who was appalled at the sight of the blood in Erik's beard and on his jacket. Carefully the doctor helped him out of the jacket and the torn shirt.

"Open wide," ordered Dr Martin, and Erik obeyed.

"Hmm, you really copped a nasty one there. A tooth knocked out and..." He felt Erik's jaw carefully. "Probably not broken, but I'm not sure about that, two more teeth smashed that I'll have to pull out for you — must hurt like the deuce — and the other teeth have shifted. So how did this happen?"

"Fell off my horse," Erik maintained. Dr Martin looked at the bloody weals across his back and on his left arm.

"Off your horse?" he enquired, sceptically.

"Yes, right into a bush. Too bad," insisted Erik.

Dr Martin felt cautiously along Erik's ribs. "Two broken ribs. I'll clean the wounds and put a bandage round your chest, and that's all I can do. You need to spend the next week in bed."

Raoul felt dreadful. He had no idea that he had caused such injuries. All he could remember was one punch in the face and a couple of blows with his riding-crop. But clearly it was more than that.

"You can take off the nose, if that helps you breathe more easily," he said, and Dr Martin stared at him, astonished.

"Did he... confess, then, before he fell off his horse?" the doctor asked, disapprovingly. Then he sent Raoul and Babette out of the room. "I'll deal with him now; that's my duty as a doctor. After that you can start killing him again."

When Erik left the examination room, Raoul and Babette were waiting for him. He had put on his jacket again and cleaned his beard, but all the same there was still a trickle of blood from his mouth, and a visible swelling in his jaw. Looking at Raoul, he asked quietly if he might change his clothing before leaving the chateau for good.

"Why the change of heart? I thought you were desperate to stay?" enquired Raoul.

"Dr Martin tells me that Christine all but lost the child; it has survived, but she will have to remain lying down for the rest of her pregnancy. I have no right to any preferences of my own. Forgive me for even having thought about it — I'll never trouble you again."

"No!" cried Babette. "Don't go!"

She turned to the Vicomte. "Please, Monsieur, he's hurt, please don't send him away. I'll take full responsibility for everything he does, but please let him stay here, at least until he has found somewhere to go."

"You love him," Raoul realised.

"Yes, I love him — that vain, self-centred, untruthful, self-pitying swine! That's why I'm begging you to give him time to get well. After that you can throw us both out together, if that's what you insist."

Erik stared at the plump woman. "Babette, I have nothing left. No money, no place to stay, nothing. And I'm no longer young and strong enough to start all over again. I shall end up as a beggar in the street, and I can't ask you to share that."

Raoul observed how the two of them looked at each other. Then he came to a decision.

"Into bed with you, Monsieur Bertrand, and there you'll stay for the next week. Babette, he isn't going to be able to eat anything but gruel. You'll be personally answerable to me for seeing that he gets back on his feet."

"Yes, Monsieur!" said Babette, beaming. "And thank you very, very much."

"Thanks," said Erik awkwardly.

"Don't think you're getting away with this so easily," growled Raoul. "As soon as my second child is born, you will be down on your knees begging my wife's forgiveness. And don't you dare wriggle out of it!"


	15. The confession

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **The confession**

After these dramatic events the following week passed in the greatest of peace. Erik was confined to bed and Christine likewise, and hence there was no particular need to make explanations since the two of them never encountered one another. Raoul told Christine that they were out of danger now, but he could not tell her everything; it would agitate her too much, and Dr Martin had forbidden that. It was the truth, even if it was not the whole truth.

With a rueful shake of the head Raoul realised that he was behaving just like Erik. Telling a part of the truth, leaving out as much as possible and letting people fill in the rest for themselves is the best way of lying. But in this case it was for Christine's own good. She accepted what he told her, but she was not really comforted either.

The second week also went by entirely peacefully. Then Dr Martin asked to speak with the Vicomte in private.

"It's Bertrand," began the doctor. "He's been refusing food and water for days. So far as I can tell he just lies in bed, barely stirs, sleeps very little and no longer eats or drinks. If at first he was struggling for his life, now it seems that he has suddenly given in. Neither his dogs nor Babette can cheer him up.

"He himself says that he knows this condition and has often been like this before, and we should just leave him alone. But this is the third day — if he doesn't drink soon he will die of thirst. I think he has fallen victim to a kind of melancholia; somehow or other we must get him out of this dark frame of mind, or he will be in serious danger."

"And you already have some idea of how you intend to do it, or you wouldn't have come to me?" asked the Vicomte.

Dr Martin nodded. "Yes. The sole subject that can still get a response from him is that of your daughter. He reacts only to her name, and to nothing else. I think he ought to see her. If he could see her, it would help."

Raoul considered. "Is there any danger for Marie?"

"No. Monsieur Bertrand's state is not aggressive, but depressed."

Raoul sighed. "Very well, then — but only under supervision."

~o~

He decided to go to see Erik himself. When he knocked, it was Babette who opened the door.

"He's not at all well," she said unhappily. The curtains were drawn. Erik was lying on the bed with his three dogs nestled up to him. Even the dogs appeared dejected, as if their master's mood had communicated itself to them.

He was not wearing a mask. Raoul could see that Babette had trimmed his beard and so the sunken cheeks and prominent bones of his skull were more clearly visible, in addition to the remaining swelling of his lower jaw.

"Erik," said Raoul softly, but the man thus addressed scarcely reacted, save that he opened his eyes and regarded Raoul.

"How are you?" asked the Vicomte.

"Wretched," said Erik quietly.

"Dr Martin says that you are not eating or drinking enough," continued the Vicomte.

"I'm not hungry," came the answer.

Raoul looked around. Babette had prepared a bowl of gruel for her beloved, who with his swollen jaw and his mouth still partially swollen shut could eat nothing solid. "If you eat that up and then drink something, you can see Marie tomorrow."

Erik sat up with a jerk, and observed: "This was Babette's and Dr Martin's idea." Then he turned to her, took the bowl and spoon and began to eat. He could only manage a small teaspoon, since he couldn't get a normal spoon in his mouth, but he ate at least something, and when Babette gave him a glass of water he drank it without protest.

Babette took the Vicomte to the door and accompanied him outside. Then she closed it. "Of course he'll give the rest to the dogs," she sighed, raising her eyes heavenward. "He's as unreasonable as a small child."

Then she turned to the Vicomte. "I'm grateful to you. Marie means so much to him — if he can see her again, he'll recover the will to live."

Raoul didn't care for the idea at all, but he had promised that Erik might see Marie. Accordingly, he found himself sitting in the music room with his daughter. She was eating a croissant — which was to say that she was sucking on it, crumbling most of it onto the carpet, spitting out a portion over her dress and with a great deal of luck managing to get a small part into her mouth.

There was a knock on the door. Marie looked at once at the door, which was opened cautiously. Erik, in his full disguise as Pierre, came in.

When Marie saw him, she thrust the dribbled croissant into her father's hand and cried out joyfully "Er! Er! Er!" Erik knelt down and opened his arms so that the child could run to him as fast as her little legs could carry her. No sooner had she reached him than Erik caught her up and whirled her round the room.

Raoul felt a sudden pang of extreme jealousy: now his rival had turned the head of his daughter as well. But he did not interfere.

Erik pressed Marie close, and she removed his eyepatch and the false nose in the most natural of gestures. It was clear that she had often done it before. Then she kissed him on the forehead, stroked his beard and said happily, "Er, Er, Er there again."

"Yes, Princess, I'm here," replied Erik with tears in his eyes. He took the false nose and the eyepatch and laid them carefully on the piano. Marie reached out her little hands and tried to stick a finger in Erik's nose-hole.

"No, no, Erik doesn't like that," he protested, and held her out at arm's length. Marie protruded her chin and lower lip and began to wail. Erik imitated her sounds and actions, and Marie fell suddenly silent, staring at him in astonishment. She was not used to grown-ups starting to cry so easily.

"Er dance, Er dance, Er dance!" she demanded.

Erik pressed her close once more against his breast and began to whirl round the room. At first it seemed to Raoul that Erik was simply revolving, and then he realised with surprise that the man was clearly carrying out dance steps — so far as he was able when wearing riding boots, since he apparently didn't own a single pair of shoes.

Erik danced with Marie in his arms to a music that was audible to him alone; or perhaps to Marie, who laughed and squealed with joy. Barely had he come to a halt when Marie demanded again "Dance, dance, dance!" and he began a new dance. It seemed to Raoul as if Erik and Marie were quite cut off from the rest of the world and were now in a little world of their own, which consisted only of Erik's elegant movements and Marie's laughter. And he, her father, was shut out.

"I can't go on any longer," panted Erik, and sat down on the carpet.

"Er dance!" insisted Marie again. Erik seated her on the floor. He was completely out of breath and had trouble distinguishing between up and down, while all other directions were long since the same to him.

"I can't," he groaned. "Let me get my breath back first."

Raoul glanced at the clock. For almost half an hour Erik had done nothing but dance around the room with the little girl in his arms, and that at a fast tempo and without pause. Only now did he realise that Erik had deliberately refrained from defending himself; now that he had seen Erik's smooth and elegant movements, and above all his endurance, it was clear that in a fight Erik would have had an easy job of it.

"Dance!" demanded Marie again, and tugged on Erik's now shorter beard.

"Ow! No, stop that!"

Marie simply laughed. "Lala," she demanded.

"Erik will sing for his princess," said Erik, and seated himself at the piano. Marie sat nearby on the floor and watched him with great blue eyes, her fair hair in disarray.

Erik sang an aria, " _Son lo spirito che nega_..." Even though he could not understand the words, Raoul knew that this was Mephistopheles' introductory aria from Arrigo Boito's opera "Mephistopheles". And it was a bass role. Erik sang it effortlessly. Raoul found this incomprehensible; according to Christine Erik had only sung tenor roles, but now he was singing bass without the slightest problem.

Marie watched him with anticipation, as if she were waiting for the best part. When he reached the point where Mephistopheles whistles, Erik stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle, and Marie, delighted, clapped her hands and laughed.

"Er lala, Er lala, Er lala!" she demanded.

"All right then, one more," said Erik, and began: " _Plaudete, sonat tuba_..."

The piece meant nothing to Raoul, but he would ask Erik about it later. A tenor role, a difficult one: there were many tenors who could never manage those passages. And Erik had said that his voice was ruined? What then was this? And — if this were really a voice completely ruined by smoking — how incredible must his voice have been previously? Clearly the man had mastered everything from the higher bass roles up to the tenor: a gigantic vocal range. Marie sat very still and gazed at Erik in admiration.

When Erik had finished, Raoul told him: "Your time's up."

Erik looked at him in confusion, like someone just woken from a deep sleep who first needed to get his bearings and work out where he was. Then he said, quietly, "Yes, of course. My thanks for allowing me to see Marie."

"Er lala!" said Marie tearfully.

Erik knelt down on the floor next to her and said softly, "It was very nice of your father to let me visit you. We mustn't abuse his generosity, or I shan't be able to see you any more. So be a good girl, and don't cry. And if you and I are both very very good, then perhaps I'll be allowed to pay you another visit. Will you promise me to be a good girl?"

Marie nodded eagerly.

"That's right. And I promise to be very very good too," said Erik, and gave her a kiss.

The little girl made a face as if she were about to cry, but she was brave and swallowed down the tears. Erik picked up his eyepatch and false nose, put them back on, and looked at Raoul.

"Thank you," he said, and it was not difficult to see that it was Erik now who wept, while Marie still gallantly held back her tears. He left the room almost noiselessly.

Marie ran to her father and held up her arms to be lifted into his lap. Then she put her little arms round his neck and said "Love Papa, love Papa, love Papa lots! Ma love Papa!" She had recently begun to call herself "Ma".

Raoul could not be angry with her, and in that moment he understood clearly that he would be making his little daughter very, very unhappy if he banned Erik from the chateau entirely. He sighed. He would have to find some solution that allowed Erik at least to remain in the vicinity. If Erik stopped coming, Marie would never understand it.

~o~

A few days later Raoul went to see Erik, who had secluded himself in his room and no longer emerged at all.

"You don't have to lock yourself up," the Vicomte observed in a friendly tone. "You're not my prisoner."

"Really?" Erik's eyebrows rose. "I thought..."

"You thought wrong," Raoul retorted somewhat curtly. "You are permitted to leave the room, to go into the garden, and also into the kitchen if you so wish. The family rooms are out of bounds. Understood?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

Raoul couldn't help but laugh at seeing Erik so meek and obedient. "What's so funny?" demanded Erik, taken aback.

"If only the managers knew," Raoul spluttered. "All one needs to do is simply tell the Phantom that an area is out of bounds, and he stays away!"

Erik had to laugh himself. The image was just too funny.

"They'd put up a sign — _No Entry: Phantoms Prohibited_..." He grew serious. "Thank you, sir, for letting me see Marie. Did I go too far when I promised her that I could see her again, just as long as I'm very good?"

Raoul had to laugh again. Before him stood the man who had terrorised the entire Opera — the Phantom of the Opera, that monster of whom he and Christine had been so terrified — talking like a little boy.

"Marie would be unhappy if she were not allowed to see you again," he told Erik. "And my daughter's happiness means more to me than throwing you out. But I want to make one thing quite clear: my house, my rules. I'm the master of the house here. If you stay, then you'll have to work. I'm not feeding and sheltering you for nothing, understood?"

Erik nodded, and stared at the floor. There was something ridiculous in the way he was attempting to look up to Raoul, when the difference in heights between them made this quite simply impossible.

"So — what line of work can you do?"

Erik stared at him. "Is this a job interview?"

"More or less... so let's find you some kind of role. You're a musician; when Marie is older you can give her lessons on the piano or some other instrument, but until then you will have to do some other line of work. I have no need of an architect, conjurer or actor here. What occurs to you?"

"I'm good at handling horses, and you have a stud farm," suggested Erik, looking not at all displeased at the idea.

"Very well. If you are willing, I'll take you on as a horse-breaker for the hopeless cases — all the animals that are only fit to be sent to the knacker otherwise — and we'll see if you can do anything with them. Do you want the job?"

"Of course. To be honest, right now I would do anything, even if it were as a stable-boy..." It made no odds to Erik what work he did, as long as he was permitted to remain.

"Good. So let's talk about your salary."

"Anything," said Erik. "Whatever you think approriate."

"You've certainly no head for business," observed Raoul, amused.

"No, not at all," admitted Erik, "even though I was a building contractor and made a tidy sum. But I had an excellent accountant..."

The Vicomte gave him a stern look. "If you suppose that you don't need any money because you can just steal anything under the sun, you're barking up the wrong tree. We'll do it this way: you'll work for your food and board, and in addition any clothing and footwear that you may require. In addition I'll pay you a bonus for every horse that is sold instead of being sent for slaughter — 30% of the difference between the sale price and what the knacker would have paid."

Erik looked rather helpless. He had no idea if the offer was a good one or not; he understood a great deal about horses, but he knew nothing whatever about the economics of horse-breeding. But he assented. After all, it wasn't about the money.

"You can keep the dogs," added Raoul as he departed, leaving behind him a thoroughly bemused Erik.

~o~

At supper Dr Martin pointed out to Raoul that Monsieur Bertrand would not be able to work as a horse-breaker with as yet unhealed ribs, and certainly not while he couldn't even eat normally.

"You'll have to tell him," Dr Martin warned the Vicomte adamantly. "Today he asked me for strapping that would be strong enough to withstand a fall from a horse — he wants to start work tomorrow."

"He did what?" Raoul was aghast. "I thought it was obvious that he couldn't start yet."

"Not to him. I'm afraid you'll have to tell him even what seems self-evident. It's only two weeks since his... riding accident, and it will take him at least a month to recover."

~o~

The next day Erik came to Raoul's study. "Dr Martin has told me I can't ride yet." He sounded positively aggrieved.

"Yes, I know," said Raoul. "Could you construct some toys for Marie? Some building blocks, for example?"

"Certainly. I'll need some thin planks, a saw, and a large and small file."

"Good, then that can be your employment for the next month," Raoul decided. Something in the way of punishment was necessary, and the idea of Erik having to spend a whole month sitting in his room cutting and filing little wooden blocks to size appealed to him.

Erik simply accepted this. Then he asked diffidently: "May I ask, sir, how things are with your wife?"

Raoul sighed. "Better. It was a false alarm and she can get up again. Currently Dr Martin and I are considering whether it would be better for her to know the truth or not: which is better, a shock followed by peace of mind, or ongoing — but on that account less serious — disquiet? I just don't know."

"If I might express a preference — I'd rather have it over and done with. Believe me, I've had ample practice at begging forgiveness... But it's not my decision. I'll do whatever is best for your wife."

~o~

After a further two weeks, Dr Martin decided that it would be best to tell Christine. She was too agitated and was worrying so much that it would be better if she were to know the truth.

So Raoul went to get Erik. He was, as anticipated, in his room, but Babette was with him.

"Aren't you sick of it?" she asked. "For the last two weeks you've been trimming wood to a size of 1cm by 2cm by 4cm — or, for a change, 1cm by 2cm by 8cm!"

Erik laughed. "It's for Marie," he explained cheerfully, "so I'm not sick of it at all."

"May I come in?" said Raoul, and Erik opened the door.

"What can I do for you, Monsieur?" he asked politely, stepping back so that Raoul could enter. On the floor Raoul could see a handsome wooden box which was already partly filled with little wooden blocks.

"Tell me, how many hours a day are you working on this?" he asked in astonishment. He was convinced that Erik could never have got together so many blocks, and certainly not in two weeks.

"Twelve to fourteen hours — depending on how much I get... distracted." Erik cast a meaningful glance in the direction of Babette, who went red.

"Dr Martin thinks you should tell Christine the truth now," Raoul said.

"Right now?" Erik looked horrified.

"I thought you wanted to get it over and done with?"

"Yes, of course, but... I have to confess I'm scared. What if she insists I leave?"

"Then you'll obey her!" was Raoul's verdict. He'd had more than enough of Erik putting his own desires first.

"What if she... she demands a punishment?" asked Erik, seeming to become smaller and smaller.

"When the time comes, we'll see."

"I'm afraid," confessed Erik, looking at Babette.

She took his hand and said firmly: "I'll stick with you however it turns out."

"Babette... if I survive this, would you marry me?" Erik said with gratitude."I'll recognise all your children as my own, even though I know they can't have been mine."

"Would that be a proposal, now?" enquired Babette.

"A ham-handed one, but... yes," said Erik uncertainly in reply.

"Men will say anything when they're scared," retorted Babette, shaking her head. "Ask me again when it's all over."

* * *

 _(continued...)_

Links to the arias in question on YouTube (remove the "+"):

 _Son lo spirito_ : https:+/+/www+.+youtube+.+com+/+watch?v=-PZS_L6mH1M  
 _Plaudite, sonat tuba_ : https:+/+/www+.+youtube+.+com+/+watch?v=5zhz-4KUh1E


	16. The confession (cont)

**The confession** (cont.)

The Vicomte asked Christine to come to his study and explained to her carefully that Pierre Bertrand had something to say to her.

"You have such a strange air," said Christine in concern. "Is it bad news?"

Raoul stammered out a few awkward words, then managed: "Please prepare yourself for the worst shock of your life."

Christine was sitting in the armchair and Raoul behind his desk when Erik came in, flanked by Dr Martin and Babette. The doctor and Babette drew aside and Erik shut the door. But he came not a single step closer to Raoul or Christine.

"So you have something to tell us?" prompted Raoul, realising that Erik was not going to begin of his own accord.

"Madame, I have a confession to make," started Erik. Then he fell to his knees. "I've lied to you. I'm not the man I claimed to be. I... I'm Erik."

And with that he took off his eyepatch and false nose.

Christine remained to all appearances entirely calm. "So it was true after all," she whispered numbly. "I suspected as much, but I didn't want to believe it."

Then she stood up, went to Raoul's desk and took out a pistol, aimed at Erik and fired without a word. The bullet smashed into the door behind him.

Everyone stared at her as if paralysed, and Raoul in particular was shocked. Was that really his wife who had fired without hesitation? She had missed, but that was on account of her short-sightedness and inexperience with the weapon.

Christine laid down the long pistol, picked up the little derringer, cocked it and came straight towards Erik. This time she held the weapon right in front of his face.

"Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger?" she demanded.

Erik stared at her, eyes wide with terror. "Please — please don't!" But he made no attempt to take the weapon away from her, although he could certainly have done so.

"Name me one single reason," Christine said again. Then she lost the icy calm that had previously surrounded her and screamed at him in fury. "So it wasn't enough for you to torture us and keep us in constant fear, to cut us off from everything we knew and drive us out of our minds with terror! No, you had to worm your way into our family in the guise of a good friend so that you could feast yourself daily on the sight of our tortures, you sick monster! I can't believe that you've touched my daughter! Can you tell me one single reason why I shouldn't kill you now?"

"Your own innocence," answered Erik, and Christine let the gun fall.

"Innocence is precious," he continued. "Believe me, there is a gulf between those who have already shed blood, and those who have not done so. I am on the wrong side... and so I can only beg you for your own sake, stay where you are."

Christine broke down in tears and Raoul took her into his arms — not before having removed the weapon from her. "What has he done to me?" sobbed Christine. "He has made me into as much of a monster as he is."

"No, he hasn't," responded Raoul. "He hasn't. It's over."

For a while there was nothing to be heard in the room but Christine's despairing sobs. Then, when she was somewhat calmer, she turned to Erik, who still knelt on the floor. "You owe me. You owe me for over two years of my life. How do you plan to repay me?"

Erik shrugged helplessly.

"What — no begging, no whining, no tears? Now you do astonish me, Erik. You're so very good at that... at least when you want to get something. Don't you at least want to apologise to me?"

Erik looked at her, still shocked. "Do you hear yourself speaking, Madame? That's not you — that's how I would speak, but not you..." He seemed completely bewildered.

Christine burst into tears again, and Raoul took her back sobbing into his embrace.

"I'm sorry," said Erik, "I'm so sorry..."

~o~

"I want to know everything," said Christine, when she had calmed down somewhat and sat down in the armchair.

"Of course," Erik answered. "But... um.. can it wait a little while? I think... just now I suffered an extremely embarrassing mishap..."

"You didn't...?" whispered Babette, taken aback. Erik gave an embarrassed grin and shrugged in assent. Then he asked to be excused for a couple of minutes. As he stood, Christine saw just how close to his head her bullet had come. His right ear was bleeding. It was not serious, a mere scratch on the outer edge of the earlobe, but a few centimetres further and the bullet would have killed him.

Erik put his eye patch and false nose back on, then left the room. Babette ran after him as he went.

"Did that really just happen?" asked Dr Martin, overwhelmed by the situation. He turned to Christine. "Madame, if you will permit — I must use my stethoscope to listen to the baby. I need to be sure that you are both all right."

* * *

Erik and Babette came back, with Babette holding Erik's hand. Erik appeared very weak, as if he were ill, and Babette had a determined expression and was holding on to his hand as if to prevent him from making a run for it. In the meantime Raoul had given Christine a brief account of his conversation with Erik, not in full detail but at least enough to let her know what had been said.

Erik closed the door behind him and once more fell to his knees. This time it was in front of Christine as she sat in the armchair. Babette and Dr Martin seated themselves on the couch and Raoul in the big chair behind his desk.

"My husband has told me about what took place in the woods," said Christine. "Are you injured?"

Taken aback, Erik shook his head.

"Oh no? Not injured?" said Dr Martin, exasperated. "A cracked jawbone, two broken ribs, bleeding weals and now a bullet grazing your ear, and you're not hurt?"

"No, I'm not hurt," Erik answered stubbornly. "I'm all right."

Babette cast up her eyes with a sigh. "Men!"

"Then answer my questions, Erik, and answer truthfully, please," Christine began. "You said that you never started to carry out your plans. Is that true? Look me in the eyes and tell me that it's true — and take off the mask!"

Erik took off his eyepatch and false nose without protest, and looked Christine directly in the face. "Yes, it's the truth."

"You said that Erik had given up hunting us because he had found something better to do. What was that?"

An inward breath hissed through Erik's teeth. "Marie. Marie means everything to me."

"You also said," Christine continued, "that you considered the husband of the girl you loved — by which I can only assume that you meant Raoul and myself — to be a better man than you were. Is that true?"

Erik nodded.

"How true is it?" demanded Christine, unconvinced. She was thoroughly suspicious of Erik.

"True so far as morality goes. Morally he is head and shoulders above me," admitted Erik. But he added with a crooked grin, "And perhaps as a husband too — but in other respects I consider myself superior."

"Thanks very much," put in Raoul indignantly. "At least that one was a honest answer!"

Christine and Erik looked at one another; Erik's ear was still bleeding, but he took no notice. "I'm sorry I shot at you," she said, and gave him a handkerchief to press against the wound.

Erik's reaction was surprisingly calm. "I should have known. You're a mother, Christine, a mother afraid for her children, and it was an entirely natural response. You should have put on your spectacles, my dear... then I'd be dead."

"Address my wife like that one more time," broke in Raoul, "and I'll call you out for it!"

"You want a duel?" retorted Erik, his fighting spirit once more roused. "Go on then."

But he caught himself up at once. "Forgive me, sir — that was uncalled-for. I'm the only one here who should be apologising: I know what I have done to you both, and I regret it from the bottom of my heart. I know too that I can never make it up to you and give you back the years you have lost. I offer you my life — if you require it of me, I'll hang myself today. There's no more I can do."

"Are you still in love with me?"

Christine continued her questioning. This time her voice sounded very sad.

Erik nodded and looked at the floor. "Yes, Madame. I still love you, and will always do so."

"What about Babette?"

Erik gave Babette an unhappy look. "I'm sorry, Babette, I can't love you the way I feel about her. I love you too, but... differently."

Now it was Babette who wanted to know more. "And if you had to choose between us, which one would you pick?"

Erik looked at her, speechless.

"Now, this will be interesting," said Christine. "I'd like to know too. What's it like, to have to choose? What is it like to love two people and have to choose between them?"

Erik turned his head helplessly from side to side, and said softly, "If I had the choice... Christine. I'm sorry, Babette, but that's the truth."

Babette positively exploded with fury.

"Oh, so you would now, would you, you swine? But naturally — she's younger and prettier than I am, now take a look at this beautiful young lady. You miserable hypocrite, you really are the limit: YOU ought to know what it's like to be old and ugly! You're a right b_!" And a whole rain of curses followed. Christine couldn't understand the half of it, while Raoul and Dr Martin went scarlet.

Erik knelt huddled on the floor and stared down at the carpet. No-one could have said quite what was going through his mind, but he was obviously deeply ashamed. Babette concluded: "You want two women, you louse — a saint you can stick up in a shrine and pray to, and a whore you can take to bed. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

And with that she clipped him a hearty blow round the back of the head.

"I didn't say that," protested Erik defensively, and rubbed the ache.

"You didn't need to — men are all the same. First they idolise a woman, and then as soon as they've got what they want, they call her a whore."

"Babette," Erik began helplessly, "Babette, I... you wanted to know the truth... and you've got no need to be jealous, I know perfectly well I've never had a chance with Madame, nor ever would..."

"And so you make do with the fat and ugly cook, do you?" spat Babette. "Just who do you think you are, you miserable brute — Don Juan himself?" At which point Erik, Raoul and Christine all broke down in laughter. "What is it? What's so funny about that?"

"I... I'll explain some other time," said Erik, trying to bring his laughter under control.

"Well, if I had the choice between you and the Vicomte, I'd go for him too," said Babette angrily.

The Vicomte's expression at this was so aghast that his wife found it more difficult than ever to stop laughing. Babette continued: "As if I wanted to be in Madame's shoes! Snatched from the stage and carried off into the catacombs, that's appalling!"

"Don't worry, that wouldn't happen to you," retorted Erik, whose patience was at an end; even if he was ashamed, he wasn't prepared to submit to constant reproach. "I wouldn't have been able to carry you."

Babette dealt him a resounding slap. There was a certain glint in Erik's eye as though the whole business had begun to amuse him, and he assured her: "Oh, I like a bit of meat on my bones."

"You swine of a filthy, miserable, hypocritical egotist!" Babette berated him.

"Enough!" exclaimed Raoul. "Take your quarrel outside, anywhere you like, but leave us in peace. In here we're dealing purely with what Erik has done to us — to my wife and myself."

"If you send him away, I'm going with him," said Babette immediately. "Even if he hasn't deserved it in any way and isn't worth it!"

Erik, deeply ashamed, said nothing.

"Raoul told me that you want to stay," Christine said, once more taking control of the conversation. Erik nodded. "Just like that, without further ado? What do you have in mind?"

Erik shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well; I shan't go against what my husband has said. I'm setting just one condition. Do you want to know what it is?"

"Anything," said Erik eagerly, "whatever you want, Chri—forgive me—Madame."

"You can stay, but only as yourself."

"How do you mean?" said Erik, confused.

"It's quite simple. Not as Pierre Bertrand the soldier, with the false nose and eyepatch. If you want to stay, then it will have to be without any mask, without any costume, any disguise. I know full well that the entire neighbourhood gossips about me and my husband and thinks us crazy for fearing a Phantom. You can put an end to that by showing yourself openly. And that's precisely what I require of you."

Erik stared at her in horror. "That's your condition? That I have to show my bare face openly, all the time? That's... that's cruel."

Christine remained calm. "The chateau has a door and you're welcome to use it. But if you leave, there will be no returning. The choice is yours."

Erik shook his head, trying to set his thoughts in order. "All my life I've run away and hidden. Not this time. If you will permit me to see Marie regularly, and the children that are yet to come, then I will do whatever you demand."

Christine looked at Raoul, and nodded. "Very well, but only under supervision."

"Thank you," said Erik softly.

"Now to the specifics," said Raoul. "If Erik starts running around without a mask right away, he'll terrify the entire household. That won't do; we need to explain matters. I propose to call everyone together in the hall this evening, when Erik is to stand up in front of them all and admit to his lies."

Erik grimaced. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do. If my wife says 'without lies', then without lies it must be. You will tell everyone how you are a liar and a fraud and have deceived us for years. And then I shall say that we are nevertheless retaining you here and that you will be working for me."

Erik cast an imploring glance at Christine. "Must I?"

"Don't look at me like that," said the Vicomtesse angrily. "You can do it or make a run for it; your decision. Everyone will be waiting for you this evening in the Great Hall. If you want to bolt in the meantime, you're welcome to do so."

"I shan't run away," said Erik, and added quietly: "At least, I hope not."

Christine turned to Babette. "Dear Babette, I put him at your disposal now."

Babette made a curtsey. "Thank you, Madame."

Erik left the room in a state of total confusion; the situation was far too much for him. Christine caught Babette by the arm as she was about to follow. "Babette, tell me... when I shot at him, did he really...?"

Babette grinned and nodded. Then she gave Christine a conspiratorial wink and ran after Erik, saying loudly, so that nobody could possibly fail to hear it, "And now you're going to explain what all this Don Juan business is about!"

* * *

That evening, more or less the entire household was waiting in the hall, wondering what it was their employers had to tell them that was so important. Raoul looked at his watch. "He's not coming."

"He is coming," Christine countered.

"I think he's miles away already."

"Or simply late," suggested Christine.

At that moment they saw Erik, followed by Babette, coming in through a side door. He was keeping in the shadows so that no-one could see his face.

"Ah, Monsieur Bertrand," called Raoul, and at once the room fell silent. Everyone stared in Erik's direction. "Come over here."

Erik approached Raoul. As Christine had demanded, he wore no mask. This public humiliation was dreadful for him; he was trying not to look anyone in the face, but he could not close his ears to the shrieks, the gasps and all the sounds of the crowd. Memories were rising in him that for years he had desperately sought to repress, and he knew that if he looked anyone in the eye he would go out of his mind. His hands clutched at open air as if he were trying to hold on to something, and he broke out into a icy sweat of fear, afraid that he could already feel cold prison bars beneath his grasp.

Instead he felt a warm grasp under his own left hand, and clung onto it for dear life. Then he opened his eyes carefully to see to whom the fingers belonged.

Babette stood at his side, smiling. "Whatever happens, I am with you," she told him, her voice unusually gentle. Erik's whole body was trembling.

Both Christine and Raoul realised that while Erik was doing his best, at that moment he was unable to speak a single word. It was pointless to try to compel him; he was simply at the end of his tether. And so Raoul decided that he would have to make the speech himself.

Christine felt miserable. Her conscience was uneasy because it was she who had set Erik this terrible humiliation, but she knew now that he had spoken the truth when he had claimed to love her. He had changed; otherwise he would not be here now and would not have exposed himself to this ignominious degradation which awoke such terrible memories.

"You all know that my wife and I have been afraid of a pursuer," began Raoul. "We are well aware on that account you have taken us to be mad. But we did not know just how artful that pursuer was; he disguised himself and had the gall to position himself under our very noses, so brazenly that it occurred to no-one that it was him. Pierre François Erik Bertrand, better known as Erik, has today confessed everything and begged our forgiveness."

Erik tried to remain somehow or other on his feet and not to throw up. More than that at this moment he could not manage. He continued to hold fast to Babette like a drowning man clutching at a line.

"We have forgiven him," said the Vicomtesse. "And we want you all to know the truth so that no further rumours will arise. He will remain here, because we believe that every man deserves a fair chance in life. He has hitherto had none. And so, Erik, if you wish it, we offer you the chance to make a fresh start in this place. You have only to take my hand."

Erik stared at her, saw her outstretched hand and laid his right hand, trembling, in hers. He simply stood there, hanging on to the two women, incapable of saying anything or of formulating a halfway coherent thought.

"We expect everyone here to treat Erik with respect, like any other man," said the Vicomte. "And that is everything said that there is to say on the subject."

At the edge of his consciousness Erik became aware that he was being led into another room. Then everything around him went black.

~o~

"Go on, help him!" cried Babette, and at once Dr Martin was there to examine Erik.

"Clearly a sudden onset of weakness," the doctor diagnosed. "This was too much for him."

Erik groaned softly and reopened his eyes. "What...?" he asked, when he saw Dr Martin, Christine, Raoul and Babette all bending over him.

Babette passed him a glass of water. "Here, take a sip."

Erik took the water thankfully. "Tell me... did you really mean it? You're offering me a fresh start?"

"Yes. we are," Raoul confirmed.

"Erik, I'm sorry," said Christine, "I should have known that it was too hard for you. I wanted you to pay for what you had done to us, but... what we asked of you just now, that was too hard. Above all because we knew what you had had to endure as a child. Can you forgive us?"

"You're asking MY forgiveness?" said Erik in astonishment. Christine nodded, smiling. "I don't hold anything against you. I'm only grateful that you are giving me a chance."

Raoul turned to Babette. "Tell me — how did he get that black eye?"

Babette looked her employer straight in the face. "I gave him a piece of my mind."

Erik gazed at her. "Babette... thank you. You really were at my side the whole time. I know I'm completely unworthy, but... would you marry me? Not on the 31st of February, but on a real day?"

Babette looked at the ceiling with feigned offence. "Now I'll have to think carefully about that one... All right, then — but only because I'm in sore need of a father for my five children, and a grandfather for my three grandchildren. No, four, there's another one coming... And I'm tired of sitting in the pew of shame in church!"

* * *

Original author's notes:

 _The "pew of shame" (German:_ _ **Ledigenbank**_ _): in Europe in former days, unmarried mothers were obliged to sit in a separate pew in church and not next to respectable women. They were held up to the community as a cautionary example._

 _Christine reacts violently and demonstrates that she is far more dangerous than Raoul. Luckily her eyesight is poor and she has no idea how to use a gun. She is simply a mother who is afraid for her children and for that reason is prepared to do anything — and after all that Erik has done to her, it's entirely understandable. But she and Raoul are at heart decent people._

 _Babette is great fun to write! She really does love Erik, otherwise she would not stand by him, but she also has the habit of giving him her unvarnished opinion whether he wants to hear it or not. And there are many things about himself that he has no wish to hear at all._


	17. Oil on troubled waters

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Oil on troubled waters**

Christine's requirement that Erik should wear no mask proved more difficult than anticipated. Not for the inhabitants of the chateau, who had already seen him, but for Erik himself.

He was so ashamed that he could not bring himself to leave his room. Babette tried everything to induce him to come out: first she refused to take out his dogs, hoping that they would at least oblige him to go into the garden, but the result was that he simply opened his door and allowed the animals to roam the chateau without any supervision. The dogs ended up with Babette in the kitchen in any case, and she had no choice but to let them out into the garden, fetch them back in and take them back up to Erik.

Next she refused to bring him his meals. Either he would have to fetch his food from the kitchen or he would go to bed hungry.

To Babette, who had often seen Erik's face, it was no longer frightening. He was ugly, true, but one could get used to it. But how was she to make that clear to Erik himself? He could not bear the sight of himself and in the course of his life had never become accustomed to it — how could one make it clear, to someone like that, that other people could perfectly well accustom themselves to him?

The Vicomte and Vicomtesse were not prepared to relent and permit him a mask of any kind. They resented having been considered insane and now desired to vindicate themselves by demonstrating to everyone that they had not imagined Erik's existence. And the Vicomtesse had an additional reason to forbid Erik from wearing a mask: it was he himself who had wanted a normal life and had always dreamt of no longer having to hide his face. But how were people around him to get accustomed to it if he never showed himself?

After a week Babette gave in. This was more than just obstinacy: a whole week with nothing but water and Erik was hungry, not even he could deny that. His stomach was rumbling, he had pangs in his belly and could barely sleep, and he felt weak and tired. But all the same he stayed in his room and played his violin. It was this instrument that had taken up the majority of the space in the parcel he had received at Christmas.

What Babette did not know was that Erik really had tried to leave his room. Sometimes he made it all the way along the corridor, but courage left him at the latest when he reached the point where it joined the next passage, which was in constant use by those who lived and worked in the chateau, and he turned back towards his room. The thought of encountering someone and being seen was unbearable.

There was nothing left for Babette but to speak to the Vicomtesse.

"Madame, it's Erik," she began, and Christine looked up from her newspaper. In order to read she was wearing spectacles.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"He's refusing to leave his room. I've tried everything I can think of already and I don't know what to do," admitted Babette, and told Christine that she was not bringing up food to Erik; even if he didn't want to eat with the other servants he would at least have to make his way to the kitchen and fetch something for himself, but although he had been a week without anything but water he still did not come down. "This is more than stubbornness. He's afraid. Perhaps you could help him?"

Christine, who felt guilty since it was she who had forbidden Erik to wear a mask, felt it to be her duty to help him now. She discussed it with Raoul. They really could not expose Erik to be the object of all eyes in the servants' hall; it would be too cruel. But if he simply shut himself up in his room, that would be no help either to them or to him. So they decided that from now on he would once again be permitted to eat at their private table. Raoul was not enthused by the thought of seeing Erik's face at every mealtime, but when Christine begged it of him he finally gave in — at least until Erik could get a better grip on his fears.

When Christine entered the passage that led to Erik's room, she could see that his door was open and heard Babette's voice. "Erik, you've got to come out some time. Madame's quite right — how do you think you're ever going to lead a normal life if you don't give other people a chance to get used to you? Everyone in the chateau has seen you already, so what's the problem?"

"I can't do it. I've seen the Vicomtesse undressed — but do you think she would show herself to me naked, since that made no difference because I'd already seen her?"

"When have you seen the Vicomtesse undressed?" demanded Babette indignantly.

Erik's voice sounded amused. "The mirror in the Opera is a two-way glass. Do you think I looked away when she was getting changed?"

Christine was appalled. On the one hand she was angry with Erik; on the other hand she was angry at herself for never having thought that he might have taken advantage of the situation. True, in those days she had still been under the illusion of the false Angel of Music, but Erik had always presented himself as being a gentleman. Yet another bitter disenchantment.

"Why are you saying that about the Vicomtesse?" said Babette furiously.

"Because you, my dear, are completely shameless, and that's what makes you so appealing."

"You've got to eat something," Babette admonished him.

"Then please bring me something — anything!" This time Erik sounded almost as if he were pleading. "I'm hungry, so hungry that I hurt all over and can't think of anything else but food. Please, at least a piece of bread."

"No, you get it yourself. I'll go with you, stand at your side, hold your hand in one of mine and my frying-pan in the other, and anyone who looks at you will get the frying-pan over his head — even if it should be the Vicomte himself!"

Christine got as far as the room and saw that Erik had drawn the curtains shut save for a small crack, and was sitting at the foot of his bed. The three dogs were lying on the bed, taking up the rest of the space. She knocked on the doorframe, and Erik jumped up and stood with his face turned away.

"Erik, did you really watch me getting undressed?" she asked angrily.

Erik's ears went red, a sure sign that he was ashamed of himself. Then he nodded.

"I'd like to box your ears!" cried Christine. "Why do you always let me down?"

Erik hung his head, but remained silent with his back turned to her. Babette caught him by the shoulders and tried in vain to turn him round by force. He was much stronger than she was. Christine decided to ignore the tussle.

"Erik, you wanted a normal life," she began, endeavouring to sound friendly. Erik nodded. "Then live normally. Come and have lunch with us — you can eat at our table, as you did previously. What you did as Pierre, you can still do as Erik."

Erik turned hesitantly. His stomach rumbled loudly and he pressed both hands to it. "I can't," he answered. "As Pierre, I wore a mask."

Now Christine saw that Erik had shaved his beard. Where the beard had been, his face was covered with scurfy eruptions.

"What happened to you?" Christine was horrified.

"I can't grow a beard. I get a suppurating rash. That's why I shave my face, even though a beard serves to mask it."

"But why have you put up with this for so long?"

"I never planned for it to be so long before I..." Erik swallowed. He didn't want to speak of his insane revenge fantasies; he wanted to shut away that shameful chapter of his life.

Christine sighed. "Erik, have lunch with us today. When I said you would have a chance to make a fresh start, I meant it."

Erik gave her an astonished look. Then he nodded and said quietly: "Thank you, Madame. I shall be there."

~o~

Erik was rather late to table, but nobody was angry with him on that account. Christine had warned Raoul and Dr Martin and his wife that Erik was horribly afraid and needed to learn not to hide himself away.

Babette insisted on serving lunch personally. Only now did she realise how agonizing Erik's hunger must have become, for he fell on the food like a starving wolf and seemed to have forgotten all else — even his manners, although he usually laid great store on polite behaviour. No-one save Erik managed to stomach anything at that meal; he, on the other hand, shovelled his food down.

When he noticed that he was the only one eating, he laid down his knife and fork and stared sheepishly at his plate. "Forgive me," he murmured, ashamed, "my conduct really is impossible."

Dr Martin came to his aid. "No, it's entirely understandable on this occasion — after a week on an empty stomach there is no need to excuse yourself."

Madame Martin tried to make friendly conversation. "You must give us time to get used to your face. My husband has a wonderful ointment; perhaps it would help with your skin condition?"

"I think I'd better leave..." Erik said, standing up. In that instant the Vicomte caught him by the arm and ordered curtly: "Sit down!"

Erik looked at him in amazement, but sat down again. Raoul made an effort to eat a couple of bites and managed a small smile. "You're quite right, Babette's cooking really is wonderful today."

* * *

Over the following days Babette managed to get Erik to the point of moving around inside the chateau and going into the gardens. He seemed constantly stressed by this, and it took him hours to calm down again, but he managed it — at least when he had his dogs with him. He used them to keep other people at a distance; that way he could pretend to himself at any rate that it was the dogs they were scared of, rather than shrinking away from him.

Raoul decided that he would have to show Erik outside the chateau as well, since though the rumours had already been adequately spread, if nobody saw him people would continue to assume that Raoul and his wife were delusional. Erik had to be seen, and openly, but this time without exposing him to unnecessary humiliation.

This was not a decision to be taken lightly, but finally Raoul and Christine came to an agreement that they would take Erik with them to church on Sunday. There was a private gallery high in the side of the church for the use of the de Chagny family, and Erik could sit up there with them without having to sit among the ordinary people, which would make things easier for him.

Practically all the inhabitants of the surrounding villages were dependents of the estate — either they were employed directly at the stud farm or in wine-growing, or leased the land they farmed, or paid rent on houses or dwellings there, since the whole area belonged to the de Chagny family — and thus no-one would dare to attack Erik when he was obviously under the Vicomte's protection. In order to make the latter clear, it would be sufficient to include Erik in the coach which took the family to church, and to allow him to sit in the private gallery.

Erik found the idea appalling when Christine mentioned it to him over their evening meal. "You want to show me off like a dancing bear," he complained, "but you don't give me anything meaningful to do. There are no problem cases among the horses at the stud at the moment. I'm quite useless."

"Erik." There was a warning note in Raoul's voice. "My house — my rules. Or have you already forgotten?"

"And if you come with us, then... then you can play with Marie for an hour after church," promised Christine, and gave him a friendly smile. Erik growled something in a language that nobody could understand, but it was plain to them all that he had said something highly impolite.

~o~

That Sunday Raoul and Christine waited in the coach, but Erik didn't come. Instead Babette arrived in her Sunday clothes, looking extremely annoyed. "He's not coming. Go without him — it's useless."

"Why not?" said Christine, astonished. Erik had been so delighted to see Marie.

"The idiot wanted to give himself Dutch courage, and he's overdone it. I've put him to bed, and he'll have to sleep it off. He'd best get ready for an earful when he wakes up!"

Then she set off on foot for the church.

Christine shook her head, and Raoul sighed. "Somehow I was expecting this," he said. "He wouldn't be Erik if he didn't get up to something idiotic."

"I'm not sure if he's simply trying to get his own way or if he is really frightened," objected Christine. "He loves Marie."

It was not until Wednesday that a subdued and ashamed Erik emerged again from his room. "Sober again?" enquired Raoul over the rim of his coffee-cup.

Erik nodded. By this time Raoul, Christine and the Martins could eat in Erik's company without any problem; they had become quite used to him. "I think I need to confess something, sir..." he began, embarrassed.

"I know," said Raoul, "it was my cognac again." He got another nod. "And what am I to do with you now?"

Taken aback, Erik stared at him. "Are you expecting me to think up a punishment for myself every time?" he asked, unnerved.

"Not such a bad idea," retorted Raoul. "That way you might actually learn something."

"You realise that you can only see Marie if you are sober," put in Christine. Erik nodded again, took up the coffee-pot and poured himself a cup.

"Absolutely. I have no desire whatsoever for Marie to see me in such a condition. Might I... try again next Sunday? I promise that I'll be sober."

~o~

On Sunday Erik was, as agreed, at the coach in order to accompany them to church. He was looking extremely nervous, but he was there. Christine noticed that he was wearing a new suit of clothing and new shoes.

"You said I could have the sewing-women at the chateau make something for me," he said, surprised, when Christine mentioned it to him.

"Of course," responded Raoul. "It wasn't meant as an accusation."

When the coach arrived at the church Erik would have preferred to remain seated. In front of the church, as was entirely usual, a great crowd of people were gathered: the inhabitants of the chateau, those who worked in the vineyards, those who worked at the stud, the farmers from the surrounding villages, craftsmen, maids and manservants, and everyone else who lived in the neighbourhood. This was the only church, and many of them had undertaken to walk for hours in order to hear Mass.

Christine got out first, and greeted a few people whom she knew personally. Then came Raoul, and finally Erik, who had pulled down his hat across his face but was wearing no mask. He walked with a stoop and with his head deeply bowed, and gazed fixedly at the ground. Like a dog with a guilty conscience, awaiting its master's punishment with its tail between its legs, he crept behind Christine and Raoul, who both did their best to act as normally as possible.

The priest was standing in front of the church, talking to the organist and the two men who worked the bellows. When he saw the Vicomte, he came to greet him.

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte, Madame la Vicomtesse, I'm glad to see you attend church so faithfully. Many thanks for your generous contribution to help feed the poor." Then he turned to Erik. "And you must be the mysterious Erik Bertrand about whom everyone is talking. I'm delighted that you found your way here today."

And he offered Erik his hand. Erik stared at him, taken aback. He hadn't expected a cordial greeting.

"Call me Father Johannes." The priest couldn't manage to look Erik directly in the face, but he was making an effort to be friendly. "You're engaged to Babette, I gather?" he added, in an attempt to get a conversation under way, but Erik only nodded, and the priest gave up and returned to his discussion about the organ.

Erik followed Raoul and Christine into the church and into their separate section. "Hat off!" whispered Christine, and reluctantly he removed his hat.

If anyone had asked Erik what had taken place during the service, he would not have been able to answer. He concentrated on the organ, and came to the conclusion that some of the stops were slightly out of tune; everything else he tried to blot out. And again and again he looked down at Babette, who with a few other women had to sit at the front left, in a pew set apart.

"It's not right," he muttered. "Women are put to shame for having given children the gift of life, while a murderer sits side by side with respectable citizens."

Leaving the church was even worse for Erik than going in, for now everyone really was standing there in order to stare at him. For preference he would have turned and fled back into the interior of the building to hide, but Christine and Raoul had already gone out and were waiting for him in the coach. At that moment he felt a gentle touch on his arm.

"Come on, let's go." Babette was by his side.

Erik raised his head, drew himself up to his full height, and offered her his arm. And together they walked to the coach, Erik holding himself erect and with his head high, although everything within him was crying out to cower down, duck his head and hide his face as much as he could.

When they reached the coach, Christine asked in a friendly tone, "Babette, will you come with us?" It did not seem right to her to take Erik with them and not Babette — on the other hand, they couldn't leave Erik to walk for kilometres on foot when so many other people were taking the same route and he would be subjected constantly to their gaze. Babette scrambled into the coach, and Erik took a seat next to her.

* * *

 _(continued...)_


	18. Oil on troubled waters (cont)

**Oil on troubled waters** (cont.)

This time Erik was allowed to give Marie the little wooden blocks that he had made for her. Marie clapped her hands, and thoroughly enjoyed herself emptying out the chest and spreading the blocks all over the room. Erik collected them again and stacked them back in the box. Then he tried to show her how to play with them.

He built a little house while Marie watched in fascination. Then she laughed, clapped her hands, and knocked it over. Erik built another house and Marie watched again, waited until it was finished and knocked it over, smiling happily. Then Erik built a round tower. Marie knocked it down with squeaks of joy.

Raoul watched for a while, then sat down to join in and built another tower. Marie ran to him and knocked down his tower too in delight. This went on for a while, with the two men racing to build towers for Marie to knock over, and Marie running backward and forward, laughing as the towers toppled.

~o~

When lunchtime came, Christine and Dr Martin and his wife waited in vain for Erik and Raoul. "I'll go and call them," said Christine.

She opened the door to the music room, but what she saw there left her frozen with astonishment. Raoul and Erik were kneeling peacefully side by side on the carpet like old friends, constructing a fairytale castle out of little wooden bricks, while Marie lay on the sofa covered with Erik's jacket and sucked on a soggy building block. She was soaked in sweat and fast asleep.

"Are there any more of the large blocks?" asked Erik, and Raoul rummaged in the chest.

"Only the little ones, I'm afraid. We ought to make some that are eight and sixteen centimetres long. And we need some flat boards for ceilings — then we can build rooms."

"Good idea. I'll start on it tomorrow."

Christine couldn't help it any longer. She burst out into a peal of laughter, and both men looked at her in surprise. Christine hung onto the doorframe and laughed so that her belly, now great with pregnancy, shook. She laughed until tears ran from her eyes.

"You should have seen yourselves," she gasped, when she had regained a little breath.

"What's so funny?" asked Erik.

"The two of you — sitting on the floor playing with Marie's toys while she has long since fallen asleep with exhaustion!"

"She can knock down the castle after lunch," Raoul suggested.

"But I want to see that as well," protested Erik.

"Oh, all right then — I don't mind if you come to see that later, " Raoul conceded. "But that's the end of it for today." Still laughing, Christine rang for a servant to call the nursemaid, who carried the sleeping Marie off to bed.

Christine was still laughing when they entered the dining-room. "I'd like to finally know just what's so amusing," insisted Raoul.

"Yes, and me too," Erik agreed.

"It was the two of you — the sight was just irresistible!"

"I don't see what was so funny," protested Erik. "We were playing with Marie, that was all." This time it was the Vicomte who chimed in at once in agreement.

"And simply went on playing long after she'd fallen asleep," Christine said, giggling, and winked at Madame Martin, who responded with the sympathetic nod of a fellow-sufferer.

* * *

That Sunday morning was a turning-point for Erik. From that moment on, Raoul was suddenly a good deal more friendly towards him, treating him almost as one treats the embarrassing black sheep of the family, who is not at all presentable in public but somehow or other still belongs and has to be taken along.

And that was just what Raoul did in the weeks that followed. He took Erik with him on his rides out to inspect the vineyards.

This was quite a challenge for Erik, as he was constantly surrounded by people and constantly had to show himself. No-one dared to insult him or attack him, since he was clearly under the Vicomte's protection, but he was not spared the stares and murmurs. However, over the course of these rides he gradually relaxed, since the more often he turned up at a given location the less he was stared at and whispered about.

One hot summer's day, the two of them were once again on the way back from such a ride. Erik suddenly stopped his horse and turned his face into the wind, breathing deeply.

"What is it?" asked Raoul, whose head was buzzing with the explanations that he had just been given about the sweetness and ripeness of the grapes by the manager of the vineyard.

"Can't you feel it?"

"What?"

"The wind," said Erik, and laughed, which exposed his missing teeth. "The wind feels so good!"

Then he looked at the Vicomte, and something sparkled in his eyes. "Who can be first to the old winepress?" he challenged. "I'll give you a head start."

Raoul had no idea what to say. He knew various sides of Erik already, most of them repellent, but this childlike, playful Erik was completely new to him — and somehow not displeasing.

"Count to ten — and no cheating," he returned, and let his horse break into a gallop. But scarcely had he turned to check when he saw Erik racing up. Erik's Othello was taller and faster than Raoul's mount, and he swiftly overhauled the Vicomte.

"You cheated," protested Raoul.

"Didn't," Erik called back over his shoulder. "You need a better horse."

When Raoul reached the old pressing-house, Erik was lying on his back in the grass and gazing happily up into the sky. "The sun and the wind," he called over. "It's so good. I've never been able to enjoy the sun and the wind on my face before."

Raoul dismounted and sat down on the grass beside him. "This isn't a pleasure trip. I still have work to do."

"Oh, don't be so boring," retorted Erik, with a grin.

Raoul assumed that this had to be more or less Erik's happiest expression. But it was still grisly in the extreme: a happy death's-head with missing teeth. Raoul sighed.

"I've never thanked you, sir," Erik said, abruptly serious once more. "You've given me a roof over my head, I sleep in a warm bed and eat my fill every day. I'm allowed to see Marie, and I... I can almost live a normal life... You're far too generous — and this after all that I've done to you! You're a good man, Monsieur, and I'm truly grateful."

Raoul looked at him. What he saw there was no longer the monster that he had feared so much.

Suddenly Erik sprang up and began picking wildflowers from the wayside. "What are you up to now?" asked Raoul, astonished.

"Picking flowers for Babette — she'll be delighted if I bring her a bouquet."

Raoul thought about it and began to gather flowers in his turn. It was not that he could not afford flowers, and beautiful cultivated blossoms grew in his garden — but these wildflowers were a good idea, and he was sure that Christine too would be delighted. What pleased the Vicomte most of all was that it was not of Christine that Erik had thought when he had started picking them.

* * *

The closer they came to the projected date of Christine's confinement, the less Raoul stirred from her side. Instead he sent Erik out in his place.

Erik obeyed without protest, even when it was clear to see that it was very hard for him. For the most part he came home so tense that not even Babette dared to remain in his vicinity for fear that he might strike her. She was not sure if he was capable of recognising anyone at all before he had had a bath and calmed down.

Dubois noticed that Erik was making excessive use of the permission he had been given to buy himself shoes and clothing at his employer's expense, and he dutifully made a report of this to the Vicomte. The latter went to find Erik, who just then was sitting in the kitchen chatting to Babette.

"Erik, I need to have a talk with you," he began, and Erik at once attempted to look innocent — insofar as that was ever possible on his part. "Dubois has told me that you are acquiring so many clothes, shoes, hats, handkerchiefs and suchlike that he can't even think where you are putting them all."

"In the neighbouring room," Erik said with an innocent expression.

"The neighbouring room? Don't you dare try to put in a connecting door..."

"Too late," admitted Erik, "I already have."

"You really are impossible!" said the Vicomte angrily. "When I said you could buy things for yourself, I didn't think you were going to exploit it to this extent."

Erik shrugged, and attempted to look even more innocent. Then he responded, somewhat embarrassed, "I like nice things."

"Yes, but you've already got more than you need."

"True, but it.. it helps... when I... get angry again."

"Angry?" queried Raoul, suddenly distrustful.

"Yes, the people here... it's true I haven't been spat on or insulted, and they haven't struck me either, but... the gossip and the stares are very hard for me to bear. And then sometimes I simply need something that will... make me feel better. I haven't touched your brandy again, and the cigarettes... only rarely, because I want to sing for Marie. And so I just bought things for myself. Only things you said I could have."

Raoul sighed. Somehow he could understand it. Things weren't easy for Erik, and the man was really trying hard.

"All right — but enough is enough," he decided. "No more purchases without explicit permission."

~o~

A couple of days later the Vicomte happened to see Erik sitting out in the summerhouse. There was nothing unusual about that; Erik liked to sit in the new summerhouse and enjoy the gardens. What was much less usual was that Christine was also in the garden and went towards Erik. Raoul resolved to stay hidden and eavesdrop.

"Thank you for coming, my dear," Erik began. "This will have to stay as a secret between us, because if your husband finds out he will demand satisfaction of me in a duel. He is a good shot — I taught him myself — and I should load my weapon with powder and no ball, as in my fear I should surely fail to shoot wide. As you see, I am risking a great deal to speak to you."

Christine said nothing.

"Listen, you must stop being so friendly to me, Christine," Erik said sadly. "You're giving me hope where none exists. I know that you feel guilty about parading me like a trained ape, but... you are married and expecting your second child in a few days, and I too shall soon be married."

"Erik, what are you thinking of?" Christine flung back, furious. "I would never, ever betray my husband! I love him. How can you imply such a thing?"

Erik defended himself. "I wasn't — but you know how I feel about you. What I have always felt, and shall always feel: I love you. You are the one great love of my life and always will be... but this will be the last time we speak openly to one other. So please listen to me. From today I shall shut my feelings for you up in my heart for good and seal my lips and never again speak a word of them. If anyone should ask, I shall say that I feel nothing for you beyond paternal friendship."

"But that will be lying!"

"Yes, but that's my affair. For you I was never anything else, was I? If anything at all, then a friendly paternal figure. That is more than I deserve, and I'll take it with gratitude."

"Will you be able to resist the temptation?" asked Christine, and Erik laughed quietly.

"What do you like to eat, Christine?"

"Cherry cake," replied Christine, bewildered. Why was he now talking about food?

"And what fills you up, but just tastes ordinary?"

"Lentil stew?"

Erik laughed again and nodded. "So imagine, dear heart, that you have eaten nothing for a month and are incredibly hungry. And there sits a tasty cherry cake. Would you steal a piece?"

Christine considered for a while. "I was lucky enough never to be that hungry, but... not the whole cake, but I think I'd take a bit for myself, even if I wasn't allowed to."

"You see, that was what happened to me in Paris. I was at the end of my tether, I was starving, I could bear it no longer... and so I... did what I should never have done and shall regret until the end of my days: I hurt you. Now, things are different. Now I have a comfortable arrangement that provides me with a bowl of lentil stew every day. I'm not hungry, and with a full stomach it's easier to resist the temptation to pinch a piece of that enticing cherry cake."

He smiled wistfully and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and for a while both were silent.

"I like lentil stew, with a bit of ham in it," observed Erik, and for all that the situation was far from funny, Christine had to laugh. "And I would never hurt you. Not you, not Marie and not your husband. I feel so happy here, even if it isn't easy for me. I'm slowly coming to hope that here I can find some kind of... of peaceful autumn to my life. Babette takes so much zest in life, and I love her — not the way I love you, but that I'll never tell her. From now on I shall set myself to the task of being a decent husband to her, with everything that implies."

Christine nodded. "Erik, I want you to stay my friend, my trusted friend. But as a friend of the family, and so Raoul's friend too."

A sigh. "I don't think he wants me as a friend. But I'd gladly have him as one. I like him. Truly. He's a good man. A bit weak and goodnatured for my taste — he lets people get away with far too much — a little naive, but he's still young. But I'd be ready to lay down my life for him at any time, just as I would for you or Marie."

He stood up. "And with that our conversation comes to its end. Thank you for listening."

Christine rose, and stepped up close as if to kiss him. Erik caught her by the shoulders and held her firmly. "No," he said softly. "I'm not yet ready for that. It's better for me not to learn the taste of cherries — then it will be easier..."

He bowed to her and kissed her hand. Then he left. Christine remained in the summerhouse, with mixed feelings, and Raoul, who had heard the whole, was not at all sure what he felt about it.

* * *

 _(continued...)_


	19. Oil on troubled waters (iii)

**Oil on troubled waters** (cont.)

That night Raoul was woken by Christine crying out. Her waters had broken.

"The baby — the baby is coming!" he exclaimed in alarm, and ran at once to call the midwife and the doctor. Dr Martin was less than pleased at being woken in the middle of the night, but he came at once, as did the midwife. When Raoul came back to Christine's room with the two of them, the chambermaid, Yvonne the nursemaid with a crying Marie in her arms, and Babette were already there — a shadow in the background showed that Erik was there also, though he preferred to remain in hiding.

"Ah, the doctor and the midwife," said Babette, who was in her nightdress with her hair down; then she took command like a general. "Yvonne, take that child away! Erik, take the father away! All men out of here — there's a baby coming!"

She slammed the door shut, and Raoul stood in the corridor outside his own bedroom, feeling absolutely superfluous. At that moment it dawned on him that he was wearing only a nightshirt. His trousers were in the closet.

"I wouldn't go back in there." Erik's voice came from behind him.

"But... my trousers..."

"You can have some of mine until they let you back in."

The Vicomte hadn't yet seen what Erik had done to his bedchamber. Now he saw that the three great dogs had evidently laid claim to the bed, but the room was otherwise in fairly good order. Several books purloined from Raoul's library lay on the table, along with a sketchpad and pencil. Erik opened an almost invisible door to the neighbouring room and came back with a pair of dark blue trousers.

"Try these," he suggested. "They'll be too long in any case, but they should fit otherwise."

Raoul had no choice but to put on the trousers. They were rather tight and far too long, and he had to turn up the bottoms of the legs several times in order not to trip over them. Now he saw that Erik himself was by no means neatly dressed; his shirt was buttoned up wrong and his shoes were untied.

"How many alterations are there here now that I don't know about?" he asked, trying to look disapproving — which would have been easier if he had not been so nervous.

"Only these," said Erik. "And a... hiding-place... in the cellar, and another in the attic."

"How did you get into Marie's room by night?" Raoul enquired further.

Erik laughed.

"It was MY nailing that fastened up the door. The wood is sound and firm, but no-one looked at the nails." He grinned. Even when he didn't intend it that way, his lipless grin appeared sneering and aggressive.

"How much longer will it take?" complained Raoul.

Erik looked at the clock. "No idea. It only started ten minutes ago."

He decided that they both needed to go out and get some fresh air. This proved not to be such a good idea, since the window was open and Raoul could hear Christine's cries.

"I can't bear it," he groaned. "I should never have put her through this!"

"But then you wouldn't have Marie either," Erik broke in. Confused, Raoul nodded.

They heard Christine cry out again, then the midwife shouting at the doctor and the other way round. Finally Babette yelled at both of them.

Now it was Erik who lost his nerve. "Oh God, something is going wrong up there..."

"What? What? What? What's going wrong?" the Vicomte shouted at him, gripping his arm so hard that now it was Erik who shouted back: "Ow! Let go — you're breaking my arm!"

Raoul didn't let go. Erik tried to free himself, carefully at first, but failed. He grabbed the Vicomte's throat with his free hand and squeezed in order to force him to release his grip. Raoul did let go, but feeling himself to be under attack he struck out. This was really too much for Erik to put up with, and within a short time the two of them were brawling like street urchins.

But this too turned out to be a bad idea, for they made enough noise that Christine, who at that moment was having a respite between her labour pains, could hear them up in the bedroom. "Babette, do me a favour and kill those two idiots for me," she groaned.

"No sooner said than done," responded Babette, and marched into the garden barefoot, in her nightdress and with her hair down, to give the pair a good ticking-off.

Erik was no longer taking the fight seriously by this point. The whole thing had become a game for him when he realised that while Raoul was young, strong and agile he hadn't the faintest idea of how to really hurt an opponent. He was just offering the boy the chance to let off some steam.

That was, at least, until he received a painful blow on the back of the head from someone who knew all too well how to inflict injury. Raoul received a corresponding blow at the same moment.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourselves?" cried Babette, and boxed both their ears; Erik and Raoul let go of one another and sat on the dew-damp grass in embarrassment. "Christine is labouring to bring a child into the world at this very minute, and all you can think of is fighting like guttersnipes?"

"Sorry," Erik mumbled. "It's a bit nerve-racking here..."

"Nerve-racking? Here? In the garden? It's all right for you — up there a woman is bringing a baby into the world! So go and thump each other somewhere else, where at least she won't have to know anything about it!" Babette raised her hand to deal out another couple of slaps, but Erik was faster and caught her arm.

"How's Christine?" begged Raoul. "What's happening up there at the moment? What's going on?"

"She's having a baby, that's what is going on," retorted Babette. "It's barely an hour since the pains started — it doesn't happen as fast as all that."

"But there was an argument," said Erik anxiously.

"Nothing worth mentioning. The midwife and Dr Martin weren't entirely in agreement, but I think everything's under control now save for you two idiots. Kindly go and get lost — but don't get under anyone's feet!"

The two of them took refuge in Raoul's study. Raoul tried to read a newspaper, but found he couldn't grasp a word. Erik took one of the paintings down and began fiddling with the safe that was hidden behind it.

"You won't get that open," muttered Raoul. A moment later there came a small click and the safe sprang open.

"Oh, I won't, won't I?" grinned Erik, shutting the safe again carefully. Then he took a piece of paper, folded it and gave it to Raoul. "Hide it somewhere. In your shirt, in your trousers, anywhere on your person. I'll look the other way."

Raoul put it into his trouser pocket. Then he looked at Erik expectantly. Erik sat down next to him and began to chat. He talked casually about how careful one had to be in Paris or one's wallet would be gone... and suddenly pressed the piece of paper into Raoul's hand.

"How did you do that?" Raoul wanted to know.

"Sleight of hand. Do you want to learn?"

"Not just now."

Erik summoned his dogs and decided to play with them in the garden. Raoul went with him, since he simply had no idea what else to do with himself.

Suddenly he asked: "Was it true, what you said yesterday?"

Erik flinched. "What do you mean?"

"In the summerhouse... I was eavesdropping on you and my wife."

Erik buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Oh no. What did you hear?"

"Everything," Raoul told him. "And I'm not angry with you for speaking to my wife. The content of the conversation was... very welcome. Tell me, is it true that you want to be my friend?"

Erik looked quietly at the Vicomte. Then he answered with a nod.

"In that case — although it's more proper for the elder to make the first move — you can call me Raoul," said the Vicomte, and held out his hand to Erik. Erik took it hesitantly. He was all at sea with the social conventions of how to progress to a more intimate acquaintance with someone.

For a while they simply threw sticks for the dogs. Then Babette, who had in the meantime found the opportunity to get dressed, called to them from the door. Her voice was loud enough to echo through the whole garden.

Raoul came running as fast as his feet would carry him. If he had not been so agitated, he might well have rejoiced that this time Erik was not able to keep up with him.

"How is she?" was his first question to Babette.

"Weak and exhausted, but otherwise well," came the reply. Babette was beaming all over her round face. "And the baby is healthy too."

But Raoul heard nothing more of her congratulations. He was running up the stairs, knocking things over and pushing people aside as he went without even noticing.

Erik remained at the door with Babette.

"There's no place for me up there," he said, and it sounded neither sad nor resigned, but more as if he had simply had enough of struggling against things which he could not change. "Tell me how she is — and the baby?"

"It's a boy, small but entirely healthy. And she is doing well too. It wasn't easy on her: the little one wanted to come so quickly that the doctor and midwife were at loggerheads, since he wanted to do things differently. But everything turned out all right in the end, thank God!"

Raoul burst into the room, and saw Christine with the baby in her arms. She looked happy. "It's a boy," she said joyfully, "and he looks just like you. See, he's even got your nose!"

Raoul couldn't see that the baby resembled him at all, but he could perceive very well that it was the most beautiful baby in the world... save perhaps for Marie.

* * *

This time they waited a week before letting Erik make the acquaintance of the baby. Erik came into the room and Marie rushed up to him at once. "Er! Er! Ma lala! Ma house all fall down!"

Which meant, more or less, that she wanted to play with him and knock down more towers of wooden blocks. Erik picked her up. "Yes, right away. I just want to meet your brother," he told her.

Marie was jealous. She was used to being the sole focus of attention, and now everyone wanted to see her brother. "Silly brother," she complained. "Er silly, Mama silly, Papa silly, Ma silly!"

"No, no, Marie, it's nice to have a brother. Come and look how sweet he is," Erik said, trying to calm her down.

"No!" insisted Marie, and hid her face in his shoulder.

"She'll soon get used to it," soothed Yvonne. "It's always like that with children."

Erik looked at the baby that Christine held in her arms. Tears suddenly came to his eyes. "He's wonderful. My congratulations, Madame, Monsieur. Look, Marie, you were that small once!"

Marie took a look at her brother and shook her head. "No, Ma not small!"

"Allow me to present — Christian Philippe Erique de Chagny," said Raoul proudly.

Erik stared at him. "Erique? You're giving him the name Erique as well?"

"That was... a compromise," said Raoul. "I didn't want to call him that, Christine wanted to call him Erik, and so we agreed on Christian Philippe Erique."

Erik stood as if turned to stone, until Marie stuck her finger into his nose-hole, laughing. "Ow, no, Marie, Erik doesn't like that!" he protested.

Christine couldn't help laughing. She had never seen until now how Marie found Erik's nose so fascinating that she was always trying to reach inside.

"I'm honoured," Erik told her. "Thank you. I don't know how I can thank you both."

"By taking care of a second godchild?" proposed Christine, and Raoul protested.

"We never discussed that! No, that's out of the question!"

"You said I could chose the godparents. And I want Erik: this time as a conscious decision, without any deception or lies."

Erik cleared his throat. "I don't think I'm very suitable..."

"No, neither do I," agreed Raoul.

"Then make an effort!" Christine said decisively. "Who said that he could do anything, if only he wanted to?"

Erik sighed. "I don't want to come between you yet again; I have spent far too long doing so already. I don't want you to quarrel on my account. Please — think again about this!"

"He has a point," Raoul conceded. "Well, the christening is next Sunday. Erik, will you stand as godfather? I'm certainly not going to quarrel with my wife over this; but if you cause any hurt to one of my children, then a disaster beyond your imagination will befall you!"

"Er lala!" demanded Marie impatiently, and beat with her little fists against Erik's shoulder. She had finally had enough of merely being held in his arms.

"Yes, yes, we'll go and play now — if your parents permit."


	20. Wedding preparations

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **Wedding preparations**

Little Christian's christening threatened to become a disaster when a fresh dispute broke out between Christine and Erik over his mask. Erik had now set his heart on being the godfather, but the idea of standing by the font with the baby in his arms and not being allowed to wear a mask terrified him. He didn't trust himself to be able to stand up there in front of a crowd, and he was worried about what would happen to the baby if he were to lose his nerve. Besides, a christening was not an appropriate place to undertake to present him to high society, with all due respect for Christine's wish to restore herself in general opinion and in that of society in particular. Christine had certainly had no intention of turning the christening into a public display, but she would have liked to invite a great many guests.

Finally a small celebration within the immediate family circle was agreed upon, in return for which Erik promised that at the next ball which was held at the chateau he would prepare a magic show worthy of the court of the Shah of Persia himself. Raoul found it distasteful to allow Erik to express any opinion in this matter at all, but in the end he agreed that a small private celebration would be much more appropriate than a huge event full of people most of whom he hardly knew. It was increasingly getting on his nerves that he was always being obliged to show consideration for Erik. Erik had ensconced himself in their home, showed no thought of leaving, and constantly expected people to show consideration for him instead of keeping quiet and being grateful that he was tolerated at all.

And then the next debate loomed up, namely with the priest, who, after everything that he had learnt in the meantime, queried whether Erik was indeed a believer or not; if not, there could be no question of his becoming the godfather. Erik wanted to know how he was supposed to prove it.

"It is enough if you give me your assurance," explained Father Johannes.

"And what if I'm lying?", said Erik, for whom it was an alien idea that a stranger would trust in him.

"That is no problem of mine — that is between you and your conscience," the priest answered pragmatically.

Erik glanced at Christine, who had Christian in her arms, and Raoul, who was carrying Marie. Then he looked at the priest sitting opposite him. Then back at the children. It was clear that the answer was not an easy one for him. Finally he declared that he was indeed a Christian, but that he constantly suffered extreme doubts. The priest, delighted by this honest answer, gave it as his opinion that doubts were entirely normal.

The service was short and soon over. Erik had insisted this time on singing the _Salve o Regina_ himself, something on which for once they could all agree. All save for Marie, who wanted a different song.

"No, _Son lo spirito_ doesn't belong in church," Erik told her. "I'll sing it for you afterwards."

Christine couldn't help laughing when she heard this. She knew Erik to be a far from Godfearing man, but apparently even he had his limits. Naturally Marie couldn't have known — she was only a child and had no more understanding of the aria's meaning than she did of the christening itself. She spent it playing happily with the buttons on her father's jacket until she had pulled one of them off; then she chewed on his hat.

Immediately after the christening Babette approached Christine. The latter had already learned that Babette had boxed the ears of the Vicomte as well as Erik, and was more amused than annoyed; Babette offered her apologies. Of course, a cook ought not to box the ears of a Vicomte, but after explanations the Vicomte and Vicomtesse forgave her.

"Those two have certainly made an ideal match," Raoul murmured to his wife. "Erik is constantly coming to me to apologise for this and that, and Babette to you. It's never going to be dull..."

* * *

A few days later Babette came to the breakfast table, where the Vicomte and Vicomtesse, Dr Martin and his wife, and Erik were seated.

"Excuse me, Madame, I need to ask about the menus for today," she began innocently. "I thought we could have lentil stew followed by cherry cake for dessert."

Erik went white as a sheet — so far as this was possible for him — and dropped everything he was holding. He covered his face with both hands and shrank back into his chair.

"What's the matter, Erik?" asked Babette, turning to him with an ostensibly innocent air. "Oh, of course — you don't like cherry cake."

Erik looked as if he were about to be ill, and neither Raoul nor Christine could help bursting into giggles. This promised to be better than any stage comedy.

"Who gave me away?"

"That's got nothing to do with this!" exploded Babette. "What matters is that you want to marry ME — or do you? What was it you called me? A comfortable arrangement with a bowl of lentil stew? Filling but ordinary?"

"I didn't mean it like that..." said Erik, trying to wriggle out of it.

"So how did you mean it?"

"Please don't make a scene here," he begged.

"This is not an argument!"

"Let's clear this up in private," implored Erik, to whom the affair was hideously embarrassing.

"Why should I? If you call me a flavourless stew in front of everyone, then you can put it right in front of everyone!"

Erik cast a pleading glance in the direction of Raoul and Christine in the hopes that one of them would come to his aid and rein in Babette. But they were looking on with interest, exactly as if awaiting the premiere of a new comedy.

"I didn't say flavourless," he began, "I said I liked lentil stew with ham in it..."

He got no further, for Babette clouted him round the ear.

"Give up — you're just making it worse for yourself," Raoul advised, in a sudden access of male fellow-feeling.

"With chilli, I meant with chilli!" said Erik, trying desperately to extract himself.

"I'll give you chilli!" Babette yelled at him. This was too much for Erik, who seized her by the wrists and dragged her out of the room, slamming the door, in order to continue the argument in the neighbouring room. What had not occurred to him in his fury was that both he and Babette had powerful voices and that both couples in the breakfast-room were listening so hard you could have heard a pin drop.

"Do you have to make a fool of me in public?" he yelled.

"No more than you did of me! Or do you think it's pleasant for me to find out that I'm nothing more than some bland stew to you, a comfortable arrangement?"

"Babette, I... truly, I didn't want you to find out." Erik tried a fresh approach, but this clearly backfired, for Babette burst out in real rage: "Of course you didn't! All you want is for me to make you comfortable! And don't try to talk your way out of it by saying you made the right decision — if you had really wanted to do the right thing, you'd have made your decision and kept your mouth shut, and plain and simply ACTED right in private. But no, that was too much to ask — you have to have applause. If for once in your life you don't do anything stupid, if you once do the right thing, then you don't just make a scene about it, you act out a whole opera! You probably want people to come and thank you daily because you haven't cut their throats in their sleep!"

"Now that's definitely going too far," Erik shouted back at her. "Do you really think I'll stand for that? Anyone else would have shoved your teeth right down your throat by now — you're embarrassing me!"

"I'M embarrassing YOU? You're the only one here who's behaving like a hysterical prima donna all the time!" cried Babette, and once again Christine could no longer hold back her laughter. Babette had just described Erik as a hysterical prima donna, and she couldn't help thinking of the Paris Opera.

"You take that right back!" Erik demanded. "You've got no right at all to say anything to me, you slut!"

Something crashed and broke. Raoul made a mental note to check the inventory afterwards.

"Not on your life!" retorted Babette. "And as for this stew you've dished up for me to swallow, my dear, you can take it and choke on it!"

"Oh yes?"

"Oh yes! Or what would you say if I were to go in and get myself a helping of Dr Martin's juicy sirloin, or the Vicomte's cream puffs?"

Dr Martin went scarlet, and got a highly sceptical look from his wife. "Cream puffs?" said Raoul indignantly.

"You wouldn't dare!" thundered Erik, his voice by now probably audible throughout the whole chateau.

"Want to bet on it? You... you.. you fried egg!"

"Why 'fried egg'?" Erik was baffled.

"Burnt on one side, and slimy and half raw on the other," retorted Babette. There was a crash, then the sound of furniture being overturned and a shriek from Babette.

"That must have been the chest of drawers," Raoul decided, "with the fruit bowl on it. Oughtn't we to intervene?"

"You shameless impertinent termagant," thundered Erik's voice, "you really are the most impossible creature if you think that I..." A few phrases followed, which were unfortunately not comprehensible from the neighbouring room. Then they heard Erik's voice again. "Just you wait, you brazen witch, you'll regret that!"

"I'll give you chilli, and may you choke on it!" countered Babette, and Raoul breathed a sigh of relief that she was still alive. Then they heard another door slam, and after that it was quiet.

Raoul and Dr Martin went to have a look. There was no-one in the next-door room or in the corridor. The chest of drawers had been overturned and the fruit bowl had fallen off, as if someone — presumably Babette — had been pushed up against it. But there was nothing to be seen of either of them.

Raoul and Dr Martin turned back to the breakfast-room. "What do you think — can we expect lunch to be on time today?" enquired Dr Martin, and promptly received a kick on the shin from his wife in response.

~o~

At lunch Erik appeared to be in a good mood, as if nothing at all had taken place.

"We've agreed on a date," he reported cheerfully. "Next week I'll get to know her children and we'll put up the banns, and then we'll marry as soon as possible."

Christine stared at him. "After that scene, I thought it was all over between you," she said, astonished.

"Of course not," said Erik, whose mood was getting better and better. "That was just a tiny little lovers' tiff."

"A lovers' tiff?" The Vicomte couldn't help laughing. "What will it be like if you have a real domestic quarrel?"

~o~

Babette had in fact prepared steak for lunch, with lentil stew as a side-dish with a fried egg on each portion. For dessert there were cream puffs and cherry cake.

For once Erik displayed a healthy appetite, to Christine's astonishment, almost as if he wanted to prove something to Babette. "I think you may get lentil stew more often now," she observed, with an amused smile.

"I've no objection to that," rejoined Erik. "And I already know too that it was you who gave me away. What was it you said: that you didn't want her to be unhappy?"

Christine flushed. "I'm sorry, Erik, but I had to tell her. I couldn't allow you to lie to a good woman and take advantage of her."

Erik put on his innocent expression. "But when have I ever taken advantage of anybody?"

Christine sighed, and Raoul cast his eyes heavenwards.

* * *

A week later, a policeman came to Raoul and reported that some children who had gone to bathe in the little pool in the woods had found a body. The corpse was caught on something underwater, but it would have to be recovered, since it was probably related to the case of a serving-maid who was missing from the village. As the landowner to whom the woods and the water belonged, Raoul had to attend, as it might prove necessary to lower the water level, which was very high after a violent thunderstorm. He took Erik with him, since he had by now learnt that it was Erik who had come up with the idea of the underground lake during the construction of the Opera, and therefore knew how to divert water.

There were various people already present at the pool: the father of the missing girl, the two boys who had seen the body while swimming, several curious onlookers and more policemen. Erik rode up to the little lake while Raoul spoke to the police. Then he dismounted, keeping his horse near the policemen and making every effort to keep his back to the spectators and in particular to the girl's father, his broadbrimmed hat drawn right down over his eyes.

"We can't divert the water," he said. "There's no sluice — we'd have to install one first — and we'll never get steam-pumps into the woods either."

"We can't leave the corpse down there either," Raoul pointed out.

"Then I'll take a look at it."

"There's a body snagged on something underwater, and you want to dive down there?" said one of the policemen, appalled. Clearly this idea, simple in itself, had not occurred to anyone.

"What else am I supposed to do?" enquired Erik. "Kindly get rid of the people over there for me. Once there are only police present, I'll make a start."

The police told everyone that they would have to wait somewhat further away in a small clearing. Raoul turned to Erik.

"Why are they not supposed to watch?"

"Because I don't want them to see me alongside a corpse. It's too macabre a sight, and for the father of the missing girl it would be unbearable."

Erik took off his hat and coat, pulled off his boots and stockings and went to the little wooden jetty. He sat down and let himself slip almost soundlessly from a sitting position into the water, then dived. Raoul found himself instinctively holding his breath. When he could hold it no more and had to exhale, Erik's head surfaced again.

"She's attached to a rope that's fastened to something heavy. I can't get to it; there's too much weed and mud. The water's about four metres deep," he reported. "I think if I cut the rope I can get her out."

One of the policemen, who seemed to be the senior officer, wanted to know if it would not be possible to haul out the dead girl on the end of a line.

"I've no idea what she is attached to. It will be quicker if I cut the rope."

"Then try it," decided the officer, at the same time sending one of his subordinates to fetch Dr Martin so that the doctor could examine the corpse.

Erik dived again. The task proved difficult, since the clothing of the corpse and the weeds were in his way and he had to hold his breath. For him that meant taking a breath, diving, sawing through the rope, coming back up, taking a breath and going under again, until there came a jerk and the rope parted. The body drifted slowly to the surface of its own accord.

For the police and Raoul a terrible spectacle ensued. First of all they saw something pale moving in the greenish water, then Erik's disfigured face surfaced right next to it. Erik gasped for air and swam to the jetty in order to hang on to it until he could breathe normally again. Meanwhile the dead girl glided slowly to the surface, back upwards, with head, arms and legs hanging down into the water.

Erik caught hold of the body by the fabric of its dress and towed it to the little jetty, where two policemen pulled it out. Both of them were quite green in the face and stared at Erik. It was as if Death himself had come in person to deliver the corpse.

He got out of the water and walked towards the body. Erik next to the drowned body was a terrible sight, for bloodless and pale, with weeds in its hair and clothing, it still looked better than he did. He took a brief look at it, then turned away, took up his possessions, and withdrew into the woods so that he would no longer be visible. Since his horse was still there, however, presumably he was planning to stay in the vicinity.

The girl's father had to come in order to identify her. His first reaction was: "No, that's not her. That's not my daughter." Only when Dr Martin arrived, examined the body closely, and found a bracelet knotted from coloured wool around its wrist, did the father recognise his child.

The police led the weeping man away. "Looks like suicide," was the senior officer's verdict. "She will have tied a stone to her waist before jumping into the lake."

Dr Martin agreed that he could find no wounds and no trace of any bonds save the rope at her waist, and the latter had been knotted from the front. "Cause of death: suicide by drowning."

Not until the police and the onlookers had gone did Erik come out from his hiding-place in the bushes. He was soaked through and shivering with cold. "The poor girl," he said.

For a while he and Raoul rode side by side without speaking. Then Erik said gloomily, "She won't get a proper burial, will she? A grave in unconsecrated ground, and no funeral service."

Raoul confirmed this. "It's a pity."

"But I could sing my Requiem for her, if her father permitted it," continued Erik, and Raoul was not sure whether it was he who was being addressed or whether Erik was talking to himself. "I'd like to do that. Could you speak to the father and to the priest? I couldn't bear it if he had to see my face."

* * *

 _(continued...)_

Claudio Monteverdi: _Salve o Regina_ , YouTube link (remove the '+'): https+:+/+www+.+youtube+.+com+/+watch?v=GvZq2B-tzqk 


	21. Wedding preparations (cont)

**Wedding preparations** (cont.)

That evening Raoul told Christine about the incident. She was immediately enthusiastic about the idea of Erik singing his Requiem; she thought it could only bring great comfort to the dead girl's family.

So the next day they took a light carriage down to the village in order to speak to the grieving family. Christine had insisted on helping the family by bringing a small sum of money — not too much, in order not to humiliate them, but enough at a minimum to cover the costs of the burial — and the father thanked Raoul for making it possible for him at least to bury his child. For him the sole comfort was that she would not have to decay on the bottom of the lake in the woods.

"There is someone who would sing a Requiem for her," Raoul told him cautiously.

"I'm afraid we couldn't afford that," the father replied.

"No, it wouldn't cost you anything," said Christine. "The man who got your daughter out of the water, he... he'd like to sing the Requiem."

"Him?" said the man, astonished. "The one who looks as if they've forgotten to bury him?" It was clear that he was well aware who Erik was and what he looked like. Of course, ever since Erik had been obliged to show himself everyone had seen him.

"Yes — if you will permit." Christine again found herself pitying Erik, who this time truly only wanted to help.

The family discussed it among themselves. Finally the eldest son spoke up. "Yes, provided the Requiem takes place in the church immediately before the burial."

And so they had to speak to the priest. The latter showed himself to be open-minded and greatly regretted that he would not be able to conduct the funeral, but he had to abide by the regulations. However he agreed that a Requiem could be sung in the church unrelated to any burial, and that if the parents of the unfortunate deceased should happen to hold her funeral on the same day, then he wouldn't postpone the performance of the Requiem on that account. And with this information Christine and Raoul returned to the chateau.

~o~

They discovered that Erik was not keeping to the arrangement that he should only see their children under supervision — at that moment he was with both children in the garden, teaching Marie how to spit accurately at flowers. He lay on his stomach with Marie next to him and spat at a flower which he had selected as a target. Marie spat all over the place. Her little dress was covered in spittle and juice from her bottle; clearly the game had been going on for some time. Then she laughed and clapped. Little Christian lay in his basket nearby and watched with fascination.

"Erik!" Raoul called out angrily. "What's the meaning of this?"

Erik jumped to his feet and stared shamefacedly down at the ground.

"Forgive me, I... I really didn't mean to, but Yvonne happened to be with them in the garden, and I happened to be in the garden as well... If Marie runs up to me, I really can't run away from her — she wouldn't understand it," he said in excuse.

"Where is Yvonne now?" asked Christine.

"Even a nursemaid needs to powder her nose on occasion," Erik explained. "And so I just... kept an eye on the two of them."

"Kept an eye on them? You were teaching Marie how to spit!" Christine upbraided him furiously. "Marie is a Vicomtesse!"

Erik looked at Marie with embarrassment. Marie ran to her mother and said: "Mama cross? Mama not cross?" Then she began to cry.

Christine put her arms round her daughter and reassured her that she wasn't cross with her. Raoul hissed at Erik: "This is precisely why you're not supposed to see them without supervision. You've got nothing but idiotic ideas in your head, and I don't want you teaching them to MY children! Understood?"

Erik looked down, ashamed, and nodded. At that moment he looked like a little boy who had been reprimanded by his teacher.

"I'm sorry," he murmured with embarrassment, "it's true I... when I saw Yvonne with the children in the garden I went out to them, I... after pulling the dead girl out of the water, I had to see Marie and Christian. I had to see them alive and happy. And then... Marie finds picking flowers and making posies out of them boring, but she thinks spitting at them is amusing."

For Christine this was the last straw. "Erik, just how old are you? Two? Three? You can't leave it up to a toddler to decide what she wants to do. I thought you had at least that much sense!"

At that point Yvonne came back and took charge of the children again.

"What about the Requiem?" Erik asked in an attempt to change the subject. Raoul recounted the two conversations, and suggested that Erik ought to talk to the priest in the church himself. Erik nodded wordlessly.

The topic had been changed too hastily for Christine, and she still had more to say. "Erik, you will never — do you hear? — never again put nonsense into the heads of my children. You'll never be together with them without supervision again, do you understand me? If I catch you at it even once, then we'll throw you out!"

"But..." began Erik.

"No buts!" said Raoul severely. "You have to follow our wishes. If you don't, then you can take your possessions and disappear once and for all."

Erik swallowed and tried not to burst into tears. "I... I'll try. But if I genuinely find myself with them by accident — I really can't run away from the children. They wouldn't understand it."

"Then you greet them briefly and leave," insisted Christine. "You will not remain alone with them for a single minute — do you promise me that?"

Erik nodded. Then he asked timidly what he could do to make things right again.

"I'll come up with something," muttered Raoul.

~o~

A couple of days later Erik did indeed ride into the village to talk to the priest. It was easier for him this time, as he was travelling late in the evening at a time when most people were already at home. The priest was not pleased by the late visit, but he invited him in to the public parlour in the presbytery, which stood next to the church.

"What can I do for you, my son?" he began sententiously.

Erik grinned; he found it amusing to be called "son" by a man somewhat younger than himself. "Several things. On the one hand there is my wedding to Babette, on the other the Requiem that I'd like to sing... and naturally I'd also like to get to know the father of my daughter."

The priest stared at him with his mouth open. Then he said: "She told you that, didn't she? Did she also tell you that in those days I had yet to take my vows?"

"That's irrelevant," returned Erik. "I shall marry Babette and acknowledge all her children as mine, whoever fathered them."

The position having now — from Erik's point of view — been made clear, he was ready to engage in serious discussion with the priest. "Good, let's start with the Requiem," began Father Johannes. "Would you sing some of it for me? Just so that I can get an idea of it?"

"Of course, gladly."

They went into the church together. Erik pumped up the bellows. "Unfortunately this won't be enough for the 'Dies Irae'; I'll have to break off from time to time in order to pump up the air supply again. What's more, I need to tune the pipes, but that job will take a day or two."

"You can tune the organ? That's wonderful! I... I myself like to play, and I did notice that something was out of tune, but I can't manage to tune an organ."

"You play?" Erik asked, surprised. He hadn't expected to find a priest who could play the organ himself.

"Oh yes," said Father Johannes wistfully. "Sadly there are few people here who understand anything about music."

"I once built a device to pump the bellows that was powered by a little waterwheel and a connecting rod. But unfortunately that wouldn't work here, and a steam engine would be too loud. Something might be done using electricity, but there isn't any in the neighbourhood." Erik sighed. "I don't know... But perhaps you could work the bellows?"

"I'd be glad to."

The priest was more than a little astonished when Erik sang the 'Dies Irae'. It didn't sound like any Requiem he had ever heard, but it sounded more or less... appropriate. 'Dies Irae' means 'Day of Wrath', and this Requiem expressed just that.

When Erik had finished, Father Johannes was bathed in sweat from the effort of pumping the bellows. "That was... magnificent," he said. "Simply splendid — I can't wait to hear the entire Requiem! You sing it magnificently, and with a fervour such as I have never heard."

"Could I perhaps have a glass of water?" asked Erik. The two of them went back into the presbytery.

"Concerning the wedding..." began Father Johannes. "Babette has already come to make her confession; you should confess as well before receiving the sacraments."

Erik grimaced. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do — it's part of the ceremony."

"All right, let's get it over with," said Erik. "But I have to warn you that I have no idea how a confession goes."

"Why, have you never made your confession?"

"Yes — but it was so long ago, I can barely remember it."

Since Erik didn't want to cross back over the square to the church, they decided that the confession could equally well take place in the presbytery parlour. Erik refused to list all his sins individually, since he couldn't possibly remember all of them, and the priest suggested that he should simply list the Ten Commandments and Erik could say whether he had broken them or not. That way it would be easier, and if he needed to make a detailed confession he could always make up at any time for what he'd missed.

The priest began: "First Commandment?"

"Which one was that again?" returned Erik.

"Idol worship."

"No, I haven't done that."

"Second Commandment, taking the Lord's name in vain." This time the priest told him what it was straight away, since he assumed that Erik had no idea.

Erik considered. "Well... that depends... not really."

"'Not really'? What does that mean?"

"That I never said anything intentionally blasphemous, at least. But I have no idea if something might have slipped out that really shouldn't have," answered Erik, who had frankly never given the matter a moment's thought all his life.

"Third Commandment, to keep the Sabbath holy?"

Erik laughed softly. "Ask me rather on what exceptional occasions I ever have kept the Sabbath — it's easier to answer."

"That's not funny — this is a very serious matter," the priest rebuked him. Erik accepted this, although he himself was far from regarding the situation with the necessary gravity.

"Fourth Commandment, to honour one's father and mother?"

"I hated them. They hated me, and I them. I can't honour anybody who feels nothing but horror at the sight of me. Even my parents. I've forgiven my parents, for I know what they suffered on my account, but... no, I've never honoured them."

Now the priest was faced with a matter of conscience: could he condemn Erik for this? Could one truly demand of a child who was hated by his parents that he should revere them?

"Fifth Commandment: thou shalt not kill."

Erik looked as if he had just received a slap in the face. "Ouch. That's a sore point where I'm concerned. Unfortunately I've killed people. Sometimes in self-defence, sometimes for... other reasons. Sometimes simply for fun, to amuse myself and others."

Father Johannes stared at Erik. He had never heard such a confession. He had taken the confessions of murderers, but never heard one so terrible, least of all one made almost in a tone of amusement. "How many?" he asked.

Erik laughed softly at the priest's horror. "I'd like to know that myself. I have no idea. Certainly more than a hundred, but less than... no, I don't want to lie... I have no idea. I built devices which could kill by themselves; they wouldn't function indefinitely, but how many people died in them after I had long since left the country... I truly don't know. I'm sorry."

"Do you regret these murders?" asked Father Johannes, trying to bring his shaking voice under control.

"Not all," said Erik, "but most of them."

Father Johannes had to take a break in order to pull himself together. In front of him there sat the most appalling murderer he had ever seen, who looked like a monster and in the voice of an angel confessed to an inconceivable number of killings. It was too much for a simple country priest.

After a short while he took his place opposite Erik at the table once again and resumed his questioning. "Sixth Commandment, adultery?"

Erik seemed almost pleased when he replied: "No, never. Finally something that I've never done."

"Seventh Commandment — stealing?"

"Oh yes," said Erik, appearing more satisfied with himself than remorseful on that account. "On a colossal scale, constantly and with great enthusiasm."

This was too much for Father Johannes. "This is a grave sin and shouldn't be taken lightly! All right — how often and how much?"

Erik shrugged helplessly. "No idea. Unfortunately I have the bad habit of helping myself to whatever appeals to me. But I have really no idea how much the things were worth or how many of them there were. In the Opera alone I got 20,000 francs a month for five years."

The priest's eyes got wider and wider. "That's more than twice what a clerk earns in a year — and in one month!"

Erik grinned in embarrassment and gave a shrug.

"What does anyone spend that much money on?" Father Johannes asked in amazement.

"Luxury and bribes," Erik said calmly.

"But you regret it, at least?"

"Truthfully? No, I don't. What I regret is that I stole cigarettes, wine and brandy from the Vicomte, who was very generous to me, and a pen, paper and ink, and a couple of pencils besides. For that I'm truly sorry."

"You regret the theft of a couple of pencils, but not that of 20,000 francs?" Father Johannes was stunned. He had somehow the feeling that he ought on no account to give this Erik absolution, since he wasn't even showing remorse. Erik nodded.

"Eighth Commandment, bearing false witness?"

Erik thought about it. "Well... yes, I have. Unfortunately."

"Does that 'unfortunately' mean that you regret it?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Ninth and Tenth Commandments — coveting what belongs to another?"

"Constantly and without cease. I am always envying somebody something. Sadly that often leads to... unpleasant occurrences. And no, in this case by and large I can feel no remorse."

"Is it quite clear to you that you can obtain no absolution without remorse?" demanded Father Johannes.

"Of course, but should I have lied and said that I feel remorse for something that I don't regret at all?"

Father Johannes sighed. "Unfortunately that's quite usual. Many people feign remorse where none exists. But I have never heard of anyone with such grave sins or so many of them. I... if I set you to recite rosaries as a penance, you'll be busy for the next ten years. Perhaps... all right, we'll do it like this: I will give you absolution for those sins that you regret, and where the others are concerned you can come back when you have seen the error of your ways."

This pragmatic solution pleased Erik.

"I understand what Babette saw in you," he observed suddenly, leaving the priest speechless. Father Johannes had again not expected this in the least. There before him sat a man with a truly appalling record, who could not feel the slightest remorse, and that man turned the tables on him and gave him a guilty conscience.

"Formalities over?" enquired Erik.

"You're not taking this seriously at all!" Father Johannes yelled at him. "This is a serious matter — don't think that you can make a joke of it! It makes no odds to me, but you're putting the salvation of your soul at stake. Do you have any idea what that means? Is it actually clear to you that you have committed crimes and will have to answer for them, not before an earthly court perhaps but before the bar of Heaven?"

Erik at once became serious again. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my reactions are entirely inappropriate. I know that I am a monster so depraved that I cannot even manage truly to repent all my crimes. I do repent most of them, but many I cannot, and I will not add a further sin to their number and feign repentence where I can feel none. I cannot even promise to commit no further crimes in the future; it is a promise I have already made, and have not kept. If you cannot cope with this, then tell me, and I will have to find another priest."

Father Johannes considered for a while. "Very well, then I shall regard you as a test of my faith. I'll give you absolution, as regards those crimes which you truly repent at least. As penance... as penance you are to compose a Mass."

Erik's expression brightened, and he really beamed. "Can I use the organ?"

"If you tune it first, yes."

"All right — and for what date should the Mass be completed? I've already written a Requiem and a wedding mass; what's it to be? Christmas? Good Friday? Easter? Whitsun? A baptismal mass? An oratorio? Does it have to be finished before the wedding, or can it be later?"

"Start with the tuning of the organ. Tomorrow without delay. After that we'll see."

"With the greatest of pleasure!" Erik agreed with evident delight. Finally, a useful task to which he could devote himself.

"Then I'll put up the banns for the coming three Sundays, and in four weeks' time you and Babette can be married. And in the meantime I expect you at least to think carefully and truly consider once again what you now repent, and what you do not."

Father Johannes shook his head. How was he supposed to deal with this? Here was a man who had confessed to appalling crimes and admitted that he did not repent all of them, and yet was able to compose a Requiem and to sing as if inspired by an angel. A man who gave not a second thought to blackmail covering exorbitant sums over a period of years and yet felt guilt over the theft of a pencil. A man who had shed blood hundreds of times and wished to offer solace to the parents of a suicide. A difficult case, but perhaps not entirely hopeless.

* * *

 _(continued...)_


	22. Wedding preparations (iii)

**Wedding preparations** (cont.)

It was on a hot Friday that the funeral of the unhappy girl who had committed suicide took place. General curiosity had won the day, and more mourners came to this funeral than had come to all the recent burials put together. Even Father Johannes came. He claimed that he had simply wanted to lay some flowers in the graveyard, but given this opportunity of course he could say a prayer for her poor soul; that wasn't forbidden. Even the Vicomte and his wife made an appearance, in order to offer their sympathies to the grieving family.

Then Father Johannes opened the doors of the church and invited everybody inside to hear a new Requiem that had been composed. Erik was already up in the organ loft, giving instructions to the four 'calcants', namely the men who had to pump the bellows. When an expectant silence fell in the church, he laid his hands to the keys and began with the prelude.

It was no problem for Erik to play the entire Requiem without a score or libretto; he had sung and played it so often that he could do it by heart. It was much shorter than, for instance, Mozart's Requiem, with a duration of about twenty minutes. When it had ended, breathless silence reigned within the church. The congregation could not grasp what they had just heard: a Requiem sung by a heavenly voice that in the "Dies Irae" evoked before their eyes an angel with a flaming sword and made them cower in fear before wrath and punishment. They felt the total despair and remorse of the sinner over his transgressions. And then came the gentle finale of the "Requiem æternam", as wonderfully comforting as if the soul had just that moment been saved from the fires of Hell and arrived in Heaven, infinitely grateful for its salvation.

At length, one after another, they left the church. Erik remained hidden in the organ-loft. He sat slumped on the organ bench, trying to calm himself down. The Requiem had demanded all that he had to give, both physically and above all mentally, and now he was exhausted and bathed in sweat; he felt sick and giddy. He was afraid that if he stood up now he would fall down the stairs.

"Erik?" He heard Babette's voice, then felt her hand on his shoulder. Erik shook his head, trying to drive away the giddiness, then looked at Babette with a tired smile. She had a basket in her hand in which there was a flask of water, which she now held out to him. Erik took the flask and drank greedily. The lukewarm water helped with the dizziness and the exhaustion, sufficiently at least for him to feel capable of descending the staircase.

"The Vicomte is waiting below with the carriage," Babette said softly. She still had her hand on Erik's shoulder, as if she never wanted to let go of him again.

Erik nodded. "Thanks. Has everyone gone?"

"I don't know, but you'll have to give it a try."

"I can't. I'm so tired that I'm afraid I'm about to collapse, and I'm terrified they'll tear me to pieces if I collapse in front of them."

Babett grinned and folded back the cover of her basket, in which she was also carrying her large frying pan and a carving knife. "They'll have to go through me first," she promised firmly.

Erik went carefully down the stairs, clinging to the bannisters, since the steps seemed to sway before his eyes and he sometimes saw double. Then he took Babette's hand and went out of the church. They were all standing there: the whole village, the entire funeral party. The carriage was waiting at a few metres' distance, but it couldn't come any closer to the church. He would have to cross that distance through the crowd of people. With his right hand he clung to Babette; with his left he felt in his pocket for his lasso, although he knew that in this situation he would have no chance at all.

At that moment a bent old woman in a black headscarf approached Erik. She gazed up at him and said quietly: "Thank you for singing the Requiem for my poor daughter." The woman's voice failed and she broke down in tears.

Erik managed only a nod. Then he went cautiously to the carriage, taking great care to keep his movements smooth and calm. No panic, no jerky motions — nothing that might unsettle a crowd and turn it into a violent mob. Raoul opened the door for him, Erik and Babette climbed in, and they were off.

Erik closed his eyes and let himself sink back into his seat, leaned back his head and all of a sudden heard nothing more and saw nothing more. He was not even aware of the swaying of the coach. When next he came to himself he was in bed, and the first thing he saw was Babette, sitting next to him and holding out a glass of water.

~o~

It was not long after this that Babette asked the Vicomte for a day off, as she wanted to introduce her children to her husband. Raoul had no objection. He was only astonished by Erik's newfound enthusiasm for the church — Erik would disappear after breakfast, in general along with his dogs and horse, and would not return until late in the evening, more often than not covered in dust and cobwebs as if he had been crawling around somewhere or other. All day long the organ was constantly to be heard, and that was undoubtedly down to Erik; meanwhile the dogs hung around in the parish garden. On the other hand it was definitely pleasant not to be obliged to worry constantly what craziness Erik would get up to next.

Babette had appointed the meeting with her children for the afternoon of a beautiful Monday in early spring. They met in the village inn, which was run by the husband of the eldest daughter, and where Mondays were quiet. Thus they were on their own and had ample room.

Erik was more than a little nervous at the idea of getting to know those who were soon to become his children. When he entered the inn parlour, the five of them were already sitting behind a table, and two chairs were still empty. Erik turned and wanted to leave again, but Babette caught hold of his arm and held him fast.

"You're staying right here, my dearest!" she told him in a tone that allowed of no contradiction. Then she shoved him towards the table and said: "Sit!"

The three dogs immediately sat. Erik made a face, with an embarrassed grin that looked as if he were baring his teeth, but he sat down.

"Right, I'll make the introductions," began Babette. "This is my eldest son, Alain. His father was a blacksmith, and he's a farrier at the stud farm, is married and has a daughter." Alain was a thickset, enormously muscular man with dark hair and eyes.

"This is Cecile, my eldest daughter. She married the innkeeper and they have two sons." Cecile resembled her mother; she too was very plump.

"This is Leonie. She is the daughter of Father Johannes and is married to one of the stable lads, is soon to have a child and works as a seamstress at the chateau." Leonie was tall, slim and red-haired.

"This is Heloise, my youngest daughter. She works as a washerwoman and seamstress at the chateau." Heloise was small and plump, with brown hair and green eyes.

"And my youngest son: Hector. He is an undergardener at the chateau." Hector was short and swarthy, with jet-black hair and eyes.

"Let me guess — his father was a passing gypsy?" asked Erik, and Babette nodded.

After the introductions were over, a deafening silence reigned, until the innkeeper's wife got up and set a pitcher of watered wine and some clay beakers on the table. Erik was grateful for the water, since the wine was so sour as to be almost undrinkable. Only with salad would it be even passable.

He looked at the clock. They'd been sitting in silence for ten minutes. If no-one said anything, then they would never get anywhere.

"That's very nice conversation, children," Babette observed at the same moment. "But don't all talk at once."

Erik couldn't help grinning, and Heloise stared down, embarrassed, into her beaker, in order not to have to look at him. Cecile, on the other hand, stared at him almost as if in challenge.

"I know it's difficult for you to accept me as your father," Erik began, feeling foolish. He was supposed to be taking on the role of paterfamilias overnight, a role about which he had no idea at all. "But you don't need to fear for your mother — I'm not as bad as I look." He had to smile at that, since he was all too well aware that it was not true.

"No, that's not it," Alain responded, "we're just wondering if you know what you're letting yourself in for."

Erik choked on his wine and had to cough. "What?" He stared at Alain, completely astonished.

"Our mother described you as a sensitive artist, a cultivated man of honour, and we heard your Requiem. And so we're asking ourselves if you know what you're letting yourself in for."

Forgetting to close his mouth, Erik tried to make some kind of sense out of what he had just heard. He failed, since it made no sense at all. "You're playing some kind of joke on me — and I don't find it funny."

"No, it's not. From what our mother said, you are by all accounts a marvellous man — the most hideous man on God's earth, but with a great heart and a brilliant mind."

Erik gave Babette a suspicious look. He was convinced that this could only be some kind of prank. Babette knew more about him than anyone else, since more than once when he started to lose control she had witnessed him  
clinging to her like a tiny child, weeping and trembling, out of sheer terror at himself and out of despair when once again he had to struggle hard against the impulse to use violence. She knew what his life had been and what he had done. Or had she lied to her children? But why should she have done that?

"You don't know what became of our real fathers, do you?" Cecile asked him. Erik shook his head and wondered how this farce was to continue. At some point someone would have to break out in laughter and confess that it was all just a joke.

"My father was a smith," began Alain.

"The one whom Babette knocked down with the frying pan?" Erik asked, curious.

"The same. But do you know too that after that he was never right in the head? He stuttered and could barely remember anything." Erik looked at Babette with respect. It must have been a truly mighty blow.

Cecile was next. "My father was a poacher. One day he disappeared without trace, but the rumours didn't die away... rumours which had to do with a carving knife."

Erik looked at Babette, who returned him a look of complete innocence and said, shrugging: "I helped him with cutting up game. One day he was gone, and he was never found." Erik was beginning to ask himself whether the jest was not being laid on too thick; this was all just too comical.

Leonie didn't have much to tell; her father was the priest, who after his affair with Babette had taken orders. "He'd had enough of women once and for all," Babette said with a grin.

"My father was a dissolute wastrel who got up to all sorts of no good," said Heloise. "He's been in prison for decades and has no chance of being released."

"Somehow it appears you have a certain preference, my dear," Erik said to Babette with a smile. "You always pick the wrong man."

"Oh no, I never had any intention of marrying any of those idiots. I didn't want to marry you either, but I've changed my mind." Babette gave him a cheerful wink. "How many women can say that they've tamed a Phantom?"

Hector knew of his father only that he had been part of a passing group of gypsies and had played the violin.

"And so, now that you know, do you really want to marry our mother?" asked Cecile.

Erik only laughed. "It was an original attempt, telling me all this. You're really very creative, but... I don't believe a word of it. You just don't want me to marry your mother."

"Yes, because we're worried about you!" Leonie shot back.

He simply laughed. It really could only be a joke, but one that had been laid on so thick that it was simply ridiculous.

"Erik, this is no joke," said Babette. "What they have told you about their fathers is true. I wanted you to know about it before the marriage. You can still say no."

"Wait a minute — say that slowly so that I can follow: you really mean it? You... you told your children nothing but good of me and now they believe that I am the saint and you the sinner?" Erik simply couldn't believe it.

Babette was still serious. "I want this to work. And my children are my children and will always remain so — if you take me, you take them as well. And that goes for all of you too: he is soon to be your father, and you are to pull yourselves together and be nice to him!"

"Yes, Mother," all five chorused.

Erik massaged his temples and tried somehow to understand what had just happened. He didn't manage it at all, and only ended up with a headache. Then he heard Leonie whispering to Heloise: "It will be a challenge for us. How are we going to manage it so that he doesn't look at the wedding as if he has just risen from the graveyard?"

Heloise took a peep in Erik's direction. "Not black. Anything but black. Perhaps blue? Or dark green?"

Alain stood up and clapped Erik on the shoulder. Erik was involuntarily propelled forwards; Alain was enormously strong. "Right then, all the best, Father. I've got to go home — my wife has supper waiting."

"You're not my father yet, and I really hope the two of you come to your senses and call off the wedding," said Hector, standing up and leaving likewise. Erik remained behind with the four women. Leonie and Heloise were already eager to decide on the clothing for him and Babette.

"I'll prepare the wedding breakfast," said Cecile. "I'm the hostess here and I'd take it amiss if you held it anywhere else." Erik didn't know how he ought to react to this, and so simply said nothing.

Babette took him by the hand and said goodbye to her daughters, who were discussing fabrics and menus with great enthusiasm. Then they left, the dogs following closely behind them.

"That was a bit bizarre," observed Erik. "I'm wondering if this is really a good idea... Not because I don't love you, but because I... I simply don't know if I can get through this. You have good children, but... they will hate me."

"Rubbish, they'll love you," retorted Babette. "And if they don't, I'll beat them black and blue." Erik had to laugh. He could well imagine that Babette had her children admirably under control.

"Good, then the wedding will go ahead," he decided.


	23. A wedding, two visitors and a ball

(A/N: This is a translation of the German story **Gefangene der Angst** by **E.M.K.81** , which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)

* * *

 **A wedding, two visitors and a ball**

After the first reading of the banns, Babette no longer sat in the 'pew of shame' but retreated to Erik's gallery. He had by this time laid claim to the organ bench for himself and refused to let anyone else play unless they could perform better than he could. Father Johannes had agreed to this, and the previous organist — also the teacher at the village school, who didn't really know how to play the organ but treated it like a piano — had no chance of displacing him.

Christine welcomed Erik's new enthusiasm for the church, but she knew that all he really wanted was to get near the organ; if that meant he had to take up the duties of the church organist and play for services every Sunday, then for him it was worth the price.

In the meantime Erik had found a solution for his problem of how to avoid having to leave the church along with everyone else: he waited until the church was empty and then vanished via the side entrance of the sacristy, in front of the door of which his dogs and his horse were waiting. It didn't suit Babette, since she then had to go home alone, but she preferred that to having to ride behind Erik on horseback. Horses gave her the creeps, and she didn't want to so much as go near the animal.

That Sunday afternoon, as they were taking a stroll in the garden together, Babette asked Erik: "And how are we going to pay for the wedding?"

Erik froze as if rooted to the spot. "I have no idea. I'd completely forgotten about that."

Babette shook her head. "I have no money — I've always given it to my children."

"I have none either. What I had... saved... in Paris, my good friend used in order to compensate my... ahem... so-called victims. And what I earned here, I frittered away, since I expected any day to be recognised and killed. There was no point in saving."

Babette laughed. "Wonderful — and what do we do now? My daughters are sewing the dress for me and the suit for you, and the landlady of the inn is my daughter. Owing the money isn't an option. So borrow some."

"Never." Erik shook his head violently. "At the moment I have no income — how can I borrow anything when I know perfectly well that I'll never be able to pay it back?"

"Ask the Vicomtesse," advised Babette, "she's got a soft spot for you."

"NO, NEVER — out of the question!" yelled Erik. "I'm certainly not going to beg from HER!"

"Then we'll have to think of something. Have a talk to Dubois — he can turn just about anything into money."

Erik massaged his temples. "Dubois of all people! Can't you think of anything better?"

"Not if the wedding is to take place in three weeks. So swallow down your pride, and ask him."

Erik grimaced. He didn't care for it at all, but as he had no better idea and they really were pressed for time, there was nothing else for it but to take her advice. However pride demanded that he reject it, at least initially, in an adamant refusal. Instead he suggested that maybe a little simple burglary or theft — or even a minor murder and robbery — wouldn't be a bad notion; it would bring in a lot of money quickly and would be easier than having to ask Dubois, who constantly got on his nerves with his mania for exact figures. But Babette insisted that the wedding at least should be paid for only with honest money, and that she would settle for nothing else. And — which had just occurred to her — she also wanted rings.

~o~

After two days during which no better idea had come to him, at least none that didn't include crime, Erik crept into Dubois' office, taking great care not to be seen by anyone. If he had to ask for help, at least no-one should know of it.

Dubois was more than a little surprised to see him. Not least since Erik had not, as usual, come to him with complaints that something had not been done months ago or excuses as to why he had yet again felt obliged to buy something, but asked him politely whether he, Dubois, could demonstrate that he could live up to his reputation.

"I don't understand what you want," said Dubois.

Erik took a seat uninvited and began: "You have the reputation of being able to turn anything into money. And that is precisely why I have a question for you. Do you know anyone who is in need of an architect?"

Dubois stared at him for a while. "Why come to me with such a question just now? Your fiancée has been pestering me since Sunday as to whether I knew anyone who would pay for new musical compositions."

Erik's first reaction was: "I'll kill that woman. This time I really am going to kill her!" Dubois reacted with immediate horror and would have called for help at once; Erik, however, assured him that he certainly wouldn't kill his fiancée, since after all one often heard of men murdering their wives but not of a murder committed by an engaged man. Statistically, therefore, at present Babette was completely safe from him.

Despite himself Dubois had to laugh. Erik really had taken the trouble to put his argument at least to some extent on the level of 'facts and figures'.

He reached into one of the drawers, where he had an addressbook, searched through it for a while and found a name and address. "Ah, here he is. Clement St Clair. A builder. Every architect he employs walks out within a month; that's why he's constantly looking for architects who can cope with his way of working. If you need a job in a hurry then he's the man for you. You should write to him."

Erik grimaced. "If he's that impossible, why suggest him?"

"Two reasons. One, because you won't find anyone else who's that desperate to find an architect — and two, because he's an obnoxious character who thoroughly deserves a colleague like you."

Erik sighed. What choice did he have? "I'll write to him. Since you know him — what's most important?"

"You'll need references. And tell him not to be scared when he first sets eyes on you, otherwise he'll run a mile before you manage to bid him good day," Dubois advised him.

Erik felt his anger rise. But he could not give in to it now, or he would destroy this chance before he had even tried it. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in the hopes of being able to control himself better. Then he asked Dubois to write the name and address out for him, and left.

Three days later Clement the builder received the following letter:

"Monsieur St Clair, my humble regards.

"You don't know me, but we have an acquaintance in common who referred me to you. He says that you are in search of an architect, and as chance would have it, I am myself an architect and would be glad of the opportunity to speak to you about the possibility of working together.

"If you desire references, ask Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera, whether he is able to recommend Erik Bertrand in the role.

"Your humble servant,

"Erik Bertrand.

"P.S. Unfortunately I am not in a position to pay you a visit since my physical condition does not permit me to come to town. You can reach me at the following address..." The address was that of the chateau of the de Chagny family. It was enough to make St Clair so curious that he proposed by means of a telegram a meeting in the nearest inn to the chateau.

Erik immediately told Babette about the letter he had written.

"Do you really want to subject yourself to St Clair?" Babette asked. "He has a reputation of being a pedantical tyrant. Why else do you suppose all his architects leave?"

Erik simply shrugged. "Even if he pays me only 2,000 francs a month, the costs of the wedding will be paid off in a month and I can hand in my notice without a problem. And I had the reputation of being a pedantical tyrant myself — but me they called an utterly insane monster into the bargain!"

~o~

The meeting took place in Cecile's inn one evening. Erik entered the room and saw at once which was the man to whom he had come to speak: he was the only one who was sitting at a table alone. St Clair was a man of middle height with a crippled left hand. That answered the question of why he could not draw up his own plans; with only one hand it was impossible to hold both set-square and pencil at the same time.

Erik took a deep breath and went up to him. The other patrons of the inn were paying no attention; Erik's face was seen so often that it was no longer anything new. People avoided coming too close or making any kind of personal contact with him, but he was no longer stared at or insulted so much. However, this man did not know him.

"Monsieur?" he asked. The man looked up, and stared at him, appalled. "I am Erik Bertrand," Erik said, introducing himself, and sat down uninvited.

Cecile set down a double schnapps in front of St Clair, who emptied it at a gulp and signalled for another. After the third glass he broke out: "My God, you look just the way he described. I thought it was a joke."

Erik felt a strong desire to punch the man in the face, but mastered himself. "Perhaps we might come to the point?" he enquired, unable to conceal his anger.

"Forgive me," St Clair said, embarrassed, "I didn't mean to insult you. I... I thought Garnier was pulling my leg with his description."

"Ah, so you applied to him for the reference?"

"Do you want to know his reply?" asked St Clair. Erik nodded. "I sent a telegram saying that an Erik Bertrand had applied to me and asking what he thought of him, and he replied by express post. He said that if it was the Erik Bertrand who wore a mask on account of his hideous deformity, he would advise me to engage him at once, since I had before me one of the best architects in France. However, I should be prepared to find myself lumbered with the most difficult, disagreeable and eccentric man in the country. If he had not strangled me within three months then I should have a good chance of getting an extremely reliable employee, provided I kept all customers and officials out of his way and prevented him from murdering the workers."

Erik thought about what he had just heard. Well, it was what might have been expected. Garnier and he had worked well together, but there had been problems enough which Erik had brought down upon himself by his own impulsive temper and Garnier had had to sort out. On the other hand, Erik had solved a great many problems that without him would never have been solved.

He smiled as he thought back to the construction of the Opera. It had been, in retrospect, a very good time, assisting in the birth of a great monument. If Garnier was the father of the Opera, Erik considered himself to be the mother. While the father had made himself scarce after the conclusion of the building works, like a mother Erik had remained to nurture the Opera further.

He shook his head; that was all over now, and he had no regrets. Instead of a stone monument to love, he had found something much better — Marie and Christian, two living, breathing, warm human children, whom he could love and watch growing up.

St Clair observed Erik closely. Then he said: "What would you require in order to complete the plans for an unfinished project?"

Erik thought briefly. "First a drawing-board and the usual materials: paper, pencils, set-squares, rulers, compasses and so on. Then I need the project description: the sketches, memoranda and naturally the complete site surveys. Then I can draw up the plans. If you could simply send me the files, that would be easiest for everybody."

"Good, then let's talk about the remuneration," began St Clair.

"I get three percent of the overall project cost, however much that may be."

"Three percent just for drawing up the plans?" St Clair retorted. "Are you out of your mind?"

Erik grinned, which drew back his lips from his gums and displayed a gap-filled row of teeth. St Clair felt a sudden desire for another schnapps and looked around for Cecile.

"MY plans are well worth it," Erik said.

"Prove it," said St Clair. "My good madam, have you perhaps paper and pencil that we could use?"

Cecile did not. She had only an old slate from her husband's schooldays and a slate pencil. "That will do, let's have them," Erik decided. Then St Clair, on impulse, asked Erik to sketch a school building.

Erik considered. As he had never been to school, he had never seen the inside of a school building and could only guess. A school needed classrooms and a large general-purpose hall, perhaps accommodation for the teacher, and a latrine would have to be available.

"What sort of school? How many classes and with or without accommodation for a teacher — is there gas, running water and electricity, an earth closet or a sewer connection... or does the nightsoil wagon come round?"

"All right, all right, you win. Something simpler, as it's only supposed to be a test. A pretty little suburban villa."

Erik nodded, took the slate and pencil and began to sketch. "I'll have to draw the plans at a scale of 5mm to a metre, or the slate will be too small," he observed. St Clair's eyes grew wider and wider as he saw the drawing grow, not least because Erik was managing without any aids such as compass or ruler. This was a sketch on a school slate that was almost as accurate as a blueprint.

It was two hours before Erik was satisfied with his sketch. He pushed the slate across to the other man and leaned back. Neither of them had noticed that in the meantime the landlord had turned out all the other customers and closed the pub.

St Clair studied the drawing, then made a proposal. "Since you won't be overseeing the construction and I'll have to hire someone else specifically to bring you the documentation and fetch back the finished plans — two percent of the budget."

Erik knew that for drawing up the plans alone this was already an extremely good fee, but he would not have been Erik if he had not haggled at least a little. "Very well, then — how about 2.75 percent?" In the end they agreed on 2.35 percent.

The next morning, as Cecile was opening up the inn, she saw St Clair standing at the bar, the tables and chairs cleared off to the sides, and Erik kneeling on the floor making chalk sketches which she could not understand. She couldn't help laughing at the sight. She wasn't particularly worried about the chalk; she'd had to wash off far worse things in her time as landlady. But while she was used to drunks behaving foolishly, to see two sober men drawing on the floor with chalk was something new.

Erik looked up. "Oh, sorry — is it closing time already? We're almost finished..."

"Closing time? I'm just opening up!" retorted Cecile, laughing. "So put back the furniture, Father."

Erik jumped to his feet; Cecile had called him 'Father'. He began to put everything back into place immediately.

"The landlady is your daughter?" said St Clair, surprised. He couldn't imagine how a man of such repulsive appearance could have found himself a wife.

"Oh yes, I have five children," said Erik with some pride. "And another two, but they don't know it. In addition I have three grandchildren and a fourth on the way, and two more grandchildren from the two who aren't aware of it..." He bit his lip. Had that been a lie or not? He decided that it was near enough to the truth not to count as lying.

~o~

At midday Erik asked to speak to Raoul and Christine in private. "What have you been up to this time and how much is it going to cost me?" Raoul asked suspiciously.

"Nothing — when do I get up to anything?" said Erik, and did his utmost to look innocent. However, Raoul and Christine knew that Erik automatically responded to accusations with "Not me" or "Have I ever..?" whatever the issue; it made no difference to him whether his dogs had dug up a plant in the garden or he had placed someone's life at risk. He would probably even react the same way in the case of a murder.

So they had a brief conversation in the salon. Erik found it as always very difficult to begin, but he had no choice. He cleared his throat and began: "As you know, Babette and I and getting married in a couple of weeks and... a wedding like that costs more than the savings I currently have at my disposal... to be honest, I don't have any money... and so I hoped you might lend me something?"

Christine smiled: so it truly wasn't anything bad. "But of course," she anwsered, before Raoul could say anything. "How much do you need?"

"I don't know yet," Erik said, visibly relieved that it was all so straightforward. "A dress for Babette, a suit for me, two rings, the customary contribution to the church, a meal at the inn. I really have no idea how much it will come to, but I promise you that I'll pay back everything I owe, and everything you've paid on my behalf up to now."

"How?" enquired Raoul, who really couldn't see why Erik should have a wedding celebration when he and Christine, fleeing from Erik, hadn't been able to allow themselves one at all.

Erik drew a folded paper from his pocket. "I'm currently working as an architect for the builder Clement St Clair. At a rough estimation it will take me about two years to pay off all my debt to you, perhaps three, but I'm certain that I'll be able to manage it."

With these words he gave Raoul the handwritten contract which he and St Clair had drawn up. Raoul read through it and nodded approvingly.

"You've been talking to Dubois," he realised. "But what are you going to offer me as surety? If you want to borrow money from me, I think you should give me some kind of pledge as security."

Erik considered. He had a pair of pistols, several knives, a gun — but he needed those. Then he had the pocket watch and the cigarette case, but he could hardly offer Raoul and Christine as a pledge things that they themselves had given him as presents. What else was there, apart from clothing? He shut his eyes as he took the difficult decision. "My violin," he whispered, as if he could barely force out the words.

"Your violin?" said Christine, horrified. "That magnificent instrument? Erik, we couldn't take that."

"Why not?" said Raoul. "Finally a sensible, properly thought-out suggestion from Erik — and you say it's no good!"

"Please don't argue on my account," put in Erik. Then he allowed himself a crooked grin. "Although I should naturally prefer it if you simply take my word that I'll pay off my debts in full. I'll speak to Dubois and get him to take care of the book-keeping, and then you'll have full access to everything from the start. I won't be able to cheat even if I want to. Agreed?"

Christine gave her husband an imploring look and laid her hand on his arm. "Raoul, please. Erik's suggestion is a totally honest one. We can't take away his violin — you have no idea what that would mean for him."

Erik tried to keep from smiling. Christine had clearly recognised how hard he had found it to offer the violin as a pledge. If he were to be entirely honest with himself, he had to admit that he had counted on Christine's kind heart to make it unnecessary. A risky game, but in order for the wedding to be able to take place he had not been able to think of any other solution than to stake his valuable violin.

"All right." Raoul gave in. "And where do you want to work?" Privately he hoped that Erik would be moving away.

"It's all arranged. Tomorrow the documentation and the drawing-board are going to be delivered. I've already dismantled the bed in my, ah, wardrobe chamber and put it in storage. That should do to start off with."

"Erik, what about 'no alterations without my permission'?" said Raoul angrily.

"It wasn't an alteration. Two men could put it back in a day," Erik contradicted him. But all the same Raoul didn't like Erik simply converting a part of the chateau — even if an unused part — into a workroom without asking beforehand. He would have preferred it if Erik had moved out and only come back to visit now and then.

Erik turned to Christine. "I'd like to invite you to be the witness to the marriage, if you would permit? Naturally the invitation extends to you both." His tone was friendly, but almost sad.

Christine's face lit up. "Oh yes, with the greatest of pleasure. I wish you very happy indeed, Erik!" she exclaimed, and clasped his hand.

~o~

The marriage took place on a rainy Sunday afternoon. In the church there were only the bride and groom, the bride's five children — without their respective spouses or offspring — and the Vicomte and Vicomtesse, who were both acting as witnesses to the marriage. Somewhere between the pews the three dogs, which Erik, to make matters worse, had brought with him, were making themselves comfortable.

Babette wore a dark green dress, and Erik a suit made from the same cloth. Christine noticed that Erik had put on weight since taking up with Babette, which was a good sign. He was still extremely thin, but at least he no longer looked as if he would die of starvation at any moment. Babette looked radiant. She beamed as only a happy bride can. Erik's teeth were clenched, and far from looking happy, he looked extremely tense — but no-one could have told he was not simply suffering from a bridegroom's normal nervousness.

Babette's children appeared pleased, or at least some of them: that is to say Alain and Cecile, who had by now been able entirely to accept Erik, while Hector appeared furious and Heloise and Leonie were making an effort to look happy even though that was clearly not the case. It was clear to see there would be trouble coming to Babette and Erik from that quarter.

Raoul and Christine seemed very pleased — partly because they were happy for Erik and the plump cook, and partly because they could now be all the more certain that Erik would make no attempt to come between them.

After the very short ceremony the whole party repaired to the inn. It was against custom, but Erik himself played his violin. He wanted no other music; it could only have been a disappointment. While Cecile warmed the food, the little group sampled some wine — a gift from the Vicomte, who was well aware that the usual house wine was, to any refined palate, undrinkable.

Christine embraced the bride and groom. "I'm so happy for you!"

Erik stiffened and did not return the embrace. Although it felt wonderful to have Christine's arms around him, he dared not reciprocate — not when he had just married Babette.

Hector made his excuses and left. He wanted nothing to do with his 'father'. Alain, on the other hand, was very interested in getting to know his new father better, and in fact the two of them were able to have a good talk together about horses, as the smith naturally knew something on that subject. At length Erik had an idea and asked specifically about Alain's abilities in the forge, and the two of them were soon discussing to what extent Alain would be able to construct an object if Erik accurately described to him what he needed. It was a question of a component for some kind of apparatus.

The celebrations were rather short, and limited to a meal. After that, first of all Raoul and Christine made their goodbyes and drove back to the chateau, then Babette's children, Babette and Erik decided to go for a stroll in the rain and return to the chateau the long way round.

* * *

 _(continued...)_


End file.
